SEE HER DIE (7 page)

Elizabeth stood outside the building at Twenty-Six Federal Plaza and took a deep breath. She had to do this. Had to be calm and collected, as well as strong. She’d left work early this afternoon and gone home long enough to change into the one and only suit she owned. A black pencil skirt and matching single-breasted jacket. It was the lone remaining ensemble from her days with Brian and the firm. Everything else she’d burned in a bonfire one night after too much wine with Gloria. She’d learned very quickly that even in a not-so-up-scale neighborhood people called the police when they saw suspicious activity.

She’d almost gotten arrested for the act of liberation. Ultimately the cop had felt sorry for her since she’d just been dumped and lost her job on the same day. So he’d ushered her and Gloria back into her apartment and made them swear they would sleep it off before undertaking any other activities. The next morning she’d awakened with the kind of headache one got from drinking too much wine and with a closet that was considerably emptier. She suddenly wished she could go back to that night, or at least the morning after. That was the morning she’d made the decision to go see the shrink Gloria had recommended for the panic attacks she’d suffered with for nearly a year. That decision had led her to this place.

Elizabeth braced herself for the worst and entered the intimidating building.

After consulting a directory she crossed the cavernous lobby and hesitated at the security checkpoint.

“I’ll need a picture ID, ma’am,” the guard informed her brusquely. “Place your purse here.” He indicated the small conveyor belt that reminded her of the larger ones at airports.

She dug out her driver’s license and held it up for his inspection then handed over her bag for inspection. “I have a five o’clock appointment with Agent Collin MacBride.”

The guard checked his list and then nodded for her to pass through the metal detector. On the other side he returned her purse. Elizabeth thanked him and tucked away her license. Once at the elevator she smoothed a hand over her jacket and pressed the call button. The doors slid open immediately and the moment she selected the proper floor the doors closed and she was whisked upward.

The blue-carpeted reception area on the twenty-seventh floor was sparsely furnished and unembellished except for the enormous FBI seal decorating the far wall. The seal boasted of pride and demanded respect and managed to undo every scrap of bravado Elizabeth had mustered.

She moistened her lips and held on to the shoulder strap of her purse. Might as well get this over with. She marched up to the receptionist’s desk. “Hello, I’m—”

“Miss Young?”

The voice jerked her around as efficiently as if its owner had grabbed her by the arm and pulled.

“I’m Agent Luke Duncan,” the man said “We’ve been waiting for you. If you’ll come this way please.”

Blood roaring in her ears, Elizabeth allowed Agent Duncan to direct her down a long corridor to the sixth office on the right. He opened the door and stood back for her to enter ahead of him.

Elizabeth studied his face for a moment before she did so, but she found no comfort, no assurance that all would come out right. She was on her own here. She should have listened to Gloria and called that attorney. But she couldn’t afford a fancy New York City attorney. If she could get this matter straightened out without having to go into hock for a retainer, she would.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, she walked into the office and Duncan closed the door behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and wasn’t surprised to find that he hadn’t followed her inside.

Agent MacBride was not behind his desk, nor was he anywhere in the office. Thankful for the reprieve, Elizabeth used the time to learn what she could about the man. Graduated from Columbia University. She read each and every one of the accolades hanging on his walls. Plaque after plaque lauding his dedication and heroics. Certificate after certificate praising his work. There were numerous pictures of him receiving commendations. But there wasn’t the first sign of family or loved ones. No pictures on the desk or wall of anyone other than those related to work. Nothing.

Like the man, the office was elegant. She wondered if all FBI agents had mahogany desks and credenzas, expensive leather upholstered chairs and a view looking out over the city he served and protected. Somehow she doubted it. These luxuries were probably his personal belongings. They matched his thousand-dollar suits and Italian-made shoes.

She wondered what kind of house he lived in and just how much an FBI agent was paid. Not this much, she’d bet. Collin MacBride was exactly what she’d suspected—a rich guy with a need to prove his worth. She surveyed the many plaques and pictures that attested to his accomplishments. Just what she needed. A refined greyhound with the simpleminded tenacity of a pit bull.

The door opened and she turned as Agent MacBride entered his office. The air felt suddenly charged, and the room instantly seemed to shrink to half its size. Fear coiled around her chest, tightening until she could scarcely breathe.

“Miss Young, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He skirted his desk and gestured to one of the chairs waiting on her side.

She sat, tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth was too dry to make a difference. The pounding in her chest was almost deafening. She forced herself to focus on the man as he opened a file on his desk and appeared to review the contents.

He was tall and just as handsome and well dressed as she remembered. A thin swirl of heat chased away some of the chill she’d experienced from the moment she entered the building. A frown nagged at her forehead as she tried to analyze the ridiculous reaction. She was going to have to lay off the power drinks. Like caffeine was the reason for her hot flashes in this guy’s presence. Before she admitted the surge of heat for what it was, he spoke again.

“Have you thought about our earlier visit?” he asked in that smooth voice that spoke of breeding and an Ivy League education.

Had she thought about it? Fury seared away all other emotion. What did he think? “Actually,” she said, not bothering to keep the outrage out of her tone and lying through her teeth, “I haven’t had time to think about anything but work. Was there something in particular I should have thought about?”

He smiled, but it was not understanding or even polite. “Do you recognize this?” He tossed a photograph to her side of the desk.

Gingerly she reached for it. Her breath stalled in the farthest recesses of her lungs when she recognized the object pictured in the eight-by-ten print.

The dagger
.

The one she’d found at the junk store on Fifty-fifth. The one she’d bought Ned as a thank-you for helping her with her panic attacks. The gift she’d given him before she’d recognized him for the monster he was.

“I thought you might,” MacBride said arrogantly.

Her gaze shot to his. “So what if I do?” Her words were shaded with mounting dread. Somehow some part of her knew this was bad. Very bad. She pitched the photograph back to his side of the desk as if merely holding it would further condemn her.

“That’s the murder weapon.” He picked up the picture and pretended to study it. “It was buried to the hilt just left of the victim’s sternum.” He shook his head solemnly. “Slid right between the ribs, punctured a lung and nicked the pericardium.” He shrugged then. “He couldn’t have lived more than a few minutes. Not even long enough for help to arrive had someone called for it.”

A wobbly sensation spread through her entire body. She stared at her fingers as if she could still them by sheer force of will, but she couldn’t. Her stomach roiled and for one beat she was certain she’d be sick.

“Except no one called for help. Whoever plunged this dagger,” he tapped the photo, “into Ned’s chest left him there, naked and dying.”

Elizabeth lifted her gaze to meet his. “I didn’t do it” She struggled to swallow back some of the desperation tightening her throat. “I swear I didn’t kill him.”

Those blue eyes bored more deeply into hers, that relentlessness she’d recognized yesterday flashing like a neon sign. “All I want from you, Elizabeth, is the truth.”

The truth.

How could she hope to fool this man?

Gloria’s words echoed in her ears.
Stick with your original story. Don’t tell the cops anything else.

She drew in a ragged breath. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

Lights pulsed behind her eyes. Nausea burned bitter and hot in her throat. She’d never before had a migraine, but the abrupt chord of pain in her skull now was no ordinary headache.

He didn’t even blink, just kept watching her. “I don’t think you have, Miss Young.”

Unable to sit there another second, she lurched to her feet. “I’ve told you everything. This... this harassment is pointless. I can’t help you, Agent MacBride.”

She whipped around and headed for the door. She had to get out of here. The pain was excruciating, the trembling almost violent. If she didn’t leave now, she might not be able to do so under her own steam. She would not give him the pleasure of seeing her collapse beneath the pressure.

Before she could jerk the door open, he was standing next to her, one broad palm plastered against the slab of wood that stood between her and escape.

“If you think of anything you need to tell me, my cell number is on the card I gave you.”

She closed her eyes and struggled to hold herself steady. “I won’t think of anything.” Forcing her eyes open, she met that blue gaze. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time on me, Agent MacBride. You should be out there looking for the killer.”

“What is it you’re afraid of, Elizabeth?” he asked softly, the gentle tone a vivid contrast to the fierceness in his eyes.

Shaking her head in denial, she glared at him with all the disdain she could marshal. “I’m innocent.” She’d meant to hurl the words at him with all the anger smoldering inside her, but she’d fallen well short of the mark. All she’d managed to do was sound desperate.

“Then you won’t mind submitting to certain tests,” he suggested in that same smooth baritone.

Tests?
Her mind raced with the possibilities. Had she touched anything? Left prints or some form of DNA that would tighten the noose already around her neck?

She remembered slapping Ned. Maybe she’d scratched him. He’d grabbed her brutally. Shaken her. Had she lost a loose hair on his sleeve?

Her heart slammed mercilessly against her rib cage. That was it. She’d watched enough CSI episodes to realize what he was up to.

“Elizabeth? Is there a problem with my request?”

Her gaze locked with his once more and she shook her head. “Call my attorney.” She rattled off the name of the legal eagle Gloria had given her. “You can discuss it with him.” She couldn’t take any more. Couldn’t do this. Not again. Not alone.

He leaned in closer, square into her personal space. “I’ll call him, Elizabeth, but that’s not all I’m going to do.”

She swallowed, hard. Grasped the anger that swelled just enough to give her the strength to demand, “Is that a threat?”

He smiled and her foolish heart skipped a beat. This close she could feel the pleasure it gave him to have her trapped so firmly in his net of suspicion. She wanted to pound on that broad chest of his and rant at him. She wanted to shake him until he realized she was telling the truth. She did not kill Ned Harrison. She was innocent. Why couldn’t he see that?

But she couldn’t do any of those things. All she could do was stare into those intense eyes and fight the urge to admit defeat.

“No threat” he said on something that could have been a sigh but sounded more like a scoff. “Just fair warning.” All signs of amusement or gentleness vanished then. That chiseled jaw hardened like granite. “I’ll be watching you, Elizabeth. If you make one mistake, I’ll know it.” The corners of those firm lips tilted upward, hinted at a smile. “And you will make a mistake. They all do.”

For two long beats she stood frozen, staring into those accusing eyes, and then he moved. The instant he backed off she flung open the door and hurried to the elevator.

By the time she reached the street the panic had gripped her in its vicious talons. The pain in her skull all but blinded her.

And she understood beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he knew.

He knew she was lying.

Chapter Five

Elizabeth had little choice but to work sixteen-hour days for the next two. She’d fallen seriously behind on her schedule with the funeral and the interrogations related to Ned’s murder. Not to mention the worry and guilt slowing her usual pace. She’d never survive as a criminal. She just wasn’t cut out for a life of deception.

It was Saturday and she hadn’t heard from Agent MacBride since their meeting on Thursday evening. She hoped she never heard from him again. A little shiver chased over her flesh, reminding her that she might not have heard from him, but she’d seen his people watching her. The moment she pulled out onto the street each morning a dark sedan slid in behind her and followed her to the job site. Even Boomer had noticed the feds hanging around.

MacBride had warned her he’d be watching.

But what if it wasn’t him or his men? What if it was whoever murdered Ned? The thought had an icy chill sinking deeper into her bones.
Just stop
. Borrowing trouble wasn’t going to do her any good. She’d worried enough for several lifetimes during the past week. Besides, Boomer was certain her tail was “fibbies,” as he called them. He swore he could spot a federal agent from a mile away—they all looked the same. Same fancy suits, same designer sunglasses and the same superior attitude.

Boomer was right about the attitude, she decided as she put the lid back on the fresh bucket of paint she’d had to open an hour or so ago. MacBride had enough cocky male attitude for a dozen men. That much testosterone in one guy could be unnerving. She shivered. Only this time it had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with awareness.

Okay. Time to call it a day. Whenever she started fantasizing about the guy attempting to pin a murder rap on her, it was definitely time for a break. It was late. She was tired. She’d have to work tomorrow. Working on Sunday was her least favorite thing to do, but finishing up this loft was essential. She’d just have to grin and bear it come morning. She glanced at the time on her cell. It was well past ten and she’d obviously gotten punchy. Too little sleep and far too much pressure, not a good combination under any circumstances. A decent night’s sleep would do wonders for her ability to think straight. The final finishing touches could wait until morning. But she wouldn’t ask Boomer to help on Sunday. He probably still had a social life.