Shades of Temptation (18 page)

“I’m still not getting where you’re going with this.”

“Medically trained, Jase,” Carrie said. “As in licensed to
practice within a particular state or county. When someone in a licensed
profession moves, even within the same state, don’t they have to let the
appropriate governing authority know? Wouldn’t that governing authority then
keep track of where they’ve set up practice again?”

“Damn, you’re right. Funeral directors and morticians need a
license to practice. So do doctors. Lawyers.”

“Since we know he was in Fresno and is now in San Francisco, we
can focus our inquiries on professionals who’ve moved their practice in the past
year. Check with whatever licensing agencies might be appropriate, as well as
places like the Chamber of Commerce.”

He pulled his car back on the road. “Let’s talk to Stevens. See
how many hands we can put to work on this. It’s a good lead, Carrie. A damn good
one.”

She settled back into her seat, excited by the prospect of
exploring another lead when before there’d been so pitifully few. From the
corner of her eye, she saw Jase smiling, as well. When he caught her looking at
him, he said, “I told you so, Ward.”

Her eyes rounded with surprise before she laughed in disbelief.
“And what, exactly, was it that you told me?”

His eyes widened in mock innocence. “Just that a drive and a
breath of fresh air would do you some good. Maybe the next time I make a
suggestion, you’ll be more amenable to going with the flow rather than
questioning me like you always do.”

He placed a friendly hand on her knee and patted it.

Carrie laughed. Reaching out, she took his hand in hers again.
“Maybe I will, Jase.”

* * *

O
NCE
THEY
KNEW
WHAT
THEY
were looking for, it didn’t take them long to come up with a list of names. That
was especially true given the manpower Stevens had gathered to help them with
their quest. By the next day, after checking with a variety of state agencies,
they knew that six doctors had started practices in the San Francisco area in
the past year, and two funeral homes had changed ownership. Jase and Carrie were
going to spend several hours meeting with the individuals on their list.

The first doctor they visited was a cheery pediatrician who
wore brightly colored Adidas. He’d been a keynote speaker at a conference at the
time Kelly Sorenson was killed. The second doctor was female, a slight Asian
woman with a serious demeanor and a clipped way of speaking. She’d moved from
Fresno because her husband had been transferred to the bay area. They’d just
returned from a monthlong vacation overseas.

“Who’s next?” Jase asked.

“Dr. Odell Bowers, a reconstructive surgeon. He’s practicing
near Coit Tower.” He followed the directions Carrie gave him. “Weird,” she said.
“This is the same building I used to visit for my physical-therapy
appointments.”

“You haven’t had one in a while.”

“No. I’ve been a little busy.”

He shot her a chiding look, but before he could speak, she
interrupted, “I know. I’ll make an appointment soon. I’m not going to ruin all
the progress I’ve made by being careless now.”

“Good,” he said.

Still, as she followed Jase up the stairs of the building, she
was conscious of how her leg was dragging slightly behind her. When she reached
the top, she was even breathing a little harder, and the evidence of her
weakened stamina nearly made her cringe.

Though she tried to be discreet about it, Jase caught her
rubbing the side of her leg.

“Need another massage?” he asked mildly as they maneuvered
their way to Dr. Bowers’s second-floor office.

“Nope. I’m good.”

“I guess instead of asking the question, I should have just
said I’d give you a massage. After all, you said you were going to be more
amenable to my suggestions from here on out.”

He held the door of Bowers’s office open for her. As she walked
through, she reminded him, “I said
maybe
I would.
Convenient of you to forget that small detail.”

Laughing, he shrugged. “Convenience has nothing to do with
it.”

They stepped up to the reception desk where a harried-looking
young woman was talking on the phone. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I already told you
I don’t know when Dr. Bowers will be back in the office. I’ll call you back as
soon as I—” She gritted her teeth when the other person on the line hung up on
her.

She hung up the receiver and started jotting down some notes
but didn’t acknowledge them in any way.

Jase cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said.

The woman didn’t even look up. “Can I help you?”

“We’re with the Department of Justice and we need to speak with
Dr. Odell Bowers right away.”

The minute he mentioned they were from the DOJ, the woman’s
head snapped up. “Are you cops?” she asked. “Finally. You’d think with the
number of times I’ve called you guys that you would have arrived before
now.”

Carrie stepped forward. “We’re special agents with the
Department of Justice, not patrol officers. But you’ve asked for help from the
police. Why?”

“Because my boss hasn’t shown up to work for the past couple of
days, and I can’t get ahold of him. I’ve been fielding phone calls and visits
from angry patients and I’m sick of it, but I need the job. I don’t want to
leave things completely hanging and then have Dr. Bowers fire me when he gets
back from whatever he’s been doing.”

Carrie looked at Jase, who said, “We need to know everything
you’ve told the police. You can tell me that while Special Agent Ward looks
around Dr. Bowers’s office. We’ll also need his home address.”

* * *

T
HIRTY
MINUTES
LATER
, Carrie and Jase were racing
to Dr. Bowers’s home in the Presidio. According to the receptionist, Marlene
Harrison, Dr. Bowers was ruthlessly efficient when it came to keeping to his
office hours and scheduled appointments. In the six months that she’d been
working for him, he’d never called in sick. Yet he wasn’t answering his home
phone or his cell phone, and he hadn’t answered his door when Marlene had
stopped by his house the night before.

She should count herself lucky that she hadn’t. After all,
there was little doubt in Carrie’s mind that Dr. Odell Bowers was in fact The
Embalmer. A quick search of his medical records had revealed a link between the
first three victims—they’d all been prospective patients. Each of them had come
in for an elective cosmetic-surgery consultation and had disappeared within a
few weeks of their appointment.

There’d been no credit-card bills or cancelled checks
evidencing payments to the same doctor because the initial consultation with
Bowers had been free; up to that point, there’d been nothing to charge them for.
But that visit had been enough for Bowers to set his sights on them and get
their personal information. Address. Phone number. Maybe he’d even arranged to
meet them for coffee to talk over their options. Granted, the phone records of
the victims should have resulted in a match if they’d each called Bowers’s
office number at some point, but it was entirely possible they’d called from a
third-party line or walked in to make an appointment.

“He knew what he was going to do to them the moment he met
them,” she said. “Those damn movies…”

They’d found no evidence of how Bowers had first seen Kelly
Sorenson, but they’d found a collection of DVDs in one of Bowers’s office
cabinets that hinted at why he’d done what he had to her and the others.

Odell Bowers had been a huge horror-movie buff. Marlene said he
often spent his lunch break watching a movie and had even invited his staff to
sit in with him a few times.

“We thought it was weird and he stopped asking after the first
few times,” Marlene had said.

Halfway joking, Jase had asked, “Did any of the movies happen
to involve slicing someone’s eyelids off?”

“Are you kidding?” Marlene had retorted, rolling her eyes.
“That one was his favorite.”

The movie was about a family who moved into a new house that,
unknown to them, had been a mortuary. As soon as the family moved in, the young
son had started to act strangely. Somehow, a former serial killer was involved,
and the family discovered his collection of dried-out eyelids under a floorboard
of the boy’s room.

“I’ve always hated horror movies,” Carrie said as they pulled
up to Bowers’s residence.

“Me, too,” Jase responded.

They waited for their backup team from the SFPD to arrive. With
several officers covering other access points, Jase and Carrie made their way to
the grand front entrance flanked on either side by fancily trimmed topiary
trees.

“The guy likes his creature comforts,” Jase remarked.

“Yes,” Carrie said. “I bet he has a fancy home theater room
with a huge flat-screen TV to watch his movies.”

“Don’t malign the benefits of home theater technology simply
because of one sicko, Ward,” Jase chided back. Their teasing banter was meant to
relieve some of their tension, the same way cops often used black humor at crime
scenes to deal with the horrific things they encountered day in and day out. It
was yet more proof of how comfortable they’d become working together. It was
hard to believe that the case they’d been so vigorously pursuing could very well
be solved in a matter of minutes.

“We’re going to get him,” Jase said. “And it’s going to be
because of you, Carrie. I’m damn proud of you.”

She felt more than a small amount of pride at his words. Carrie
mirrored Jase’s stance, bracing her back against the wall and holding her weapon
at the ready. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Jase. I mean that. Now let’s
get this guy.”

* * *

B
OWERS
INDEED
HAD
a first-class theater room, with
a giant screen, blackout drapes and cushy recliner chairs. Despite the ample
seating, Jase suspected Bowers didn’t socialize much. There was a clinical
sterility to his home. Finely furnished, yes, but everything ruthlessly in its
place. He got the distinct impression that visitors would be unwelcome simply
because they might mess things up. Track dirt in. Muddy up the shiny surfaces of
his tables with fingerprints. Bowers would abhor the unpredictability of it.

They’d announced their presence but Bowers didn’t appear to be
home. Still, to insure he wasn’t hiding inside, they cleared each room, one by
one.

“Garage?” Carrie asked.

Jase spotted the most likely door, and nodded toward it. They
motioned one of the SFPD police officers over. Together, they opened the door,
unsurprised by the steep flight of stairs that led down to the garage. From the
doorway, Jase saw the back end of a polished black vehicle. On the other side of
the stairs, however, was another door. He pointed to it.

“We’ll go down together,” Carrie said. She turned to the
officer beside them. “You make sure to cover us from up here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Normally, Jase would have teased her about being called “ma’am”
by a fellow cop, but his nerves were too intense for that. They took the narrow
stairs slowly, pacing each other back-to-back. “Check the car first,” Jase
said.

“Right.”

As he kept his gun pointed toward the closed door, Carrie
checked the vehicle.

“Nothing. You’re clear on this side.”

“Okay.” He tried the door handle. It was locked. “Dr. Bowers,”
he called. “This is Special Agent Jase Tyler with the California Department of
Justice. I’m here with backup. Open the door.”

Nothing. No sounds. No attempt to open the door.

“I’m coming in,” he yelled. Raising his foot, he kicked in the
door. They went through together, weapons drawn.

They entered a huge finished basement that appeared to have
been converted into a makeshift operating room. It was loaded with steel tables
and drawers of tools and shelves of bottles. Immediately in front of them lay a
body.

Carrie caught sight of the feminine kimono and gasped. “He
killed another woman.”

“No,” Jase said. “It’s a man. Look at the face. The hair.”

It was Bowers. Dressed in feminine clothes with makeup on his
face. Makeup that had been applied with the same heavy hand as the rest of The
Embalmer’s victims. There was one big difference, however. In Bowers’s case, the
makeup was marred by the blood running down his temple. He’d sustained a major
head wound.

Everything they’d discovered—the weirdly renovated garage,
Bowers’s makeup, what his secretary had told them about his favorite movie—it
all pointed to Bowers being The Embalmer. The man who’d murdered four women. The
man who’d taunted and eluded the cops for so long. Yet now…

Cautiously, Jase checked for a pulse, confirming what he
already knew.

Bowers was dead.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

W
ASN
’
T
IT
WRONG
to
celebrate someone’s death, even if the death you were celebrating was a serial
killer’s? The question nagged at Carrie the entire next day.

She had a friend who was a deputy attorney general for the DOJ.
Renee responded to death-penalty appeals, and sometimes those appeals raged on
for decades. One time, her friend had called to tell her a death-row inmate had
died in prison. Carrie couldn’t even remember how he’d died. The thing that had
stuck with her the most was her friend’s relief.

Wasn’t it wrong to celebrate someone’s death, even if the death
you were celebrating was a serial killer’s?

Carrie wasn’t celebrating, exactly. It didn’t matter that
Bowers had been a killer. He’d obviously been a man driven by some pretty
powerful ghosts. They hadn’t found a kiln in his basement. What it did have,
though, was a half-dozen deep drawers, the kind often seen in the movies when
someone visited a morgue to identify a body.

To their profound relief, there weren’t any bodies inside. They
did, however, find pictures. Copies of the same pictures Bowers had sent to the
police. Pictures of three women.

Mary Johnson.

Theresa Steward.

And Cheryl Anderson.

He’d been a killer, a smart one, a vicious one, yet now he was
dead.

The cause of death? That was a question for the coroner to
explore. Bowers had suffered blunt force trauma to the head, but the wound had
been generic enough that, for all they knew, he’d slipped and hit his head on
the basement’s tile floor. Unlikely, but it seemed just as unlikely that someone
had caught Bowers by complete and utter surprise, especially given the way he’d
been dressed, and killed him. Unless, of course, he’d had a partner… But that
didn’t seem likely, either. Not only was there no evidence of a partner being
involved, but Bowers’s crimes had had a distinctly personal quality to them.

Speculation about Bowers’s motives would rage on, but Carrie
was betting it had to do with the death of his sister, Laura, who’d died several
years ago in a car accident. Laura, with the light brown hair. Laura, who’d been
a teacher. Laura, who’d been so badly injured in the car wreck that she hadn’t
been able to have a normal funeral service. No viewing. No burial. Could it be
that Odell was using his victims, preparing their bodies for burial in a way he
hadn’t been able to prepare Laura?

Of course, that didn’t explain why, if he loved his sister,
he’d actually hurt his victims by keeping them alive during the embalming
process, but that was an explanation they were obviously never going to get.

She was just glad Odell Bowers couldn’t hurt anyone again. That
gladness wasn’t completely free of regret, however. She’d been glad she’d
managed to shoot Kevin Porter before he’d killed her, after all, but she’d
regretted having to do it. Likewise, she was glad whenever she closed a case and
managed to obtain some justice for a person whose life had either ended or been
torn apart because of the carelessness or cruelty of another human being. But
she regretted the necessity of obtaining that justice in the first place.

What she didn’t like was that her regret often mingled with
guilt.

In this particular case, the guilt wasn’t necessarily
pinpointed at herself so much as society in general. What failing had caused
Odell Bowers’s madness to spiral out of control? To push him to the point of
feeling so utterly rejected by those around him that he had to escape inside a
dark and deranged mind to find comfort? At exactly what point did someone cease
to be the angsty teen she’d told Jase she’d been, or the troubled teen who took
drugs and joined gangs like Kevin Porter had been, or a cross-dressing boy who
loved his sister like Odell Bowers had been, and become something monstrous?

But it didn’t matter. Guilt was guilt, and frankly, Carrie was
sick of feeling it.

Wasn’t it wrong to celebrate someone’s death, even if the death
you were celebrating was a serial killer’s?

Maybe, but right now, that’s what Carrie and her teammates were
doing. At the very least, they were celebrating the fact she’d found a serial
killer and closed the case. What that meant in the grand scheme of things she’d
just have to figure out later.

No one outside DOJ or SFPD was celebrating Bowers’s capture,
however. Or his death, for that matter. For now, they’d decided to keep the
circumstances of his death a secret. Amongst his things, they’d found Kelly
Sorenson’s green business card, but that was the only evidence they’d found
linking Bowers to her murder. And, of course, because he’d likely been murdered
himself, they didn’t want to give his potential killer more information than he
or she already had.

She glanced at Jase, and from the relaxed but slightly distant
expression on his face, she wondered if he was thinking and feeling exactly what
she was, including a hint of disappointment that there was no longer a reason
for them to be working 24/7 together on the same case. With a small smile, she
extricated herself from Commander Stevens, Simon and DeMarco and made her way to
him, where he was sitting by himself at the bar in McGill’s.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey yourself,” he said. “What are you doing over here? You
should soak up more accolades. You deserve it.”

She shook her head, not in denial or false humility, but…well,
she wasn’t quite sure why. “I meant what I said back at his house. Before we
went in. We solved this case together. I wouldn’t have been able to work out all
the details and come to any sort of conclusion but for you.”

He took a drag from his bottle and winked at her. “Right. The
fresh air and drive cleared your head and got you thinking creatively. I
remember.”

But despite his teasing tone, there was a somber cast to his
mood that matched her own.

“What we do, it never heals us, not completely, does it?” she
asked him. “Not the victims. Not society as a whole. Not whatever demons are
chasing us, pushing us to do this job in the first place.”

“Nope,” he agreed. “Not completely. But no one escapes life
unscathed, Ward. That just isn’t how it works.”

His words rang true. And the way he looked at her, intense,
deep, caring…it reminded her of the last time she’d truly felt safe and content.
When they’d made love.

They’d managed to ignore that little incident while tracking
down The Embalmer, but now that he’d been caught…now that their official
partnership was over, what would happen? Would they continue to ignore it?
Pretend it never happened?

Instinctively, she knew Jase was through pushing her. That he
was waiting for a sign from her about how to proceed. As they always did where
he was concerned, her desire warred with practicality.

She wasn’t what he needed. He needed a woman to balance out his
job, and since she
was
part of the job, she couldn’t
give him that. He’d realize that soon enough, which meant she needed to be
smart. As it was, she’d barely survive Jase walking away from her, but she would
survive. So long as she stayed realistic and remembered who and what she
was.

But that didn’t mean he had to walk away
tonight.

It didn’t mean she couldn’t have one more taste of the pleasure
and safety he’d shown her. After everything they’d been through and witnessed in
the past few days, she deserved that much, didn’t she?

“That’s how life works,” she agreed. “But even so…we have to
take our pleasure where and when we can. Isn’t that what you said?”

Surprise flickered across his face before his heated gaze
pinned her in place. “That’s what I said.”

Clearing her throat and looking around to make sure no one
would overhear her, she said, “Are you all talk and no action? Or do you feel
like taking me back to your house—back to your bed—and proving your point to me
one more time.”

He considered her words, and she knew it wasn’t the offer he
was actually contemplating, but her deliberate reference to making love to him
one last time. As in, never again. As in, now that the case was over, things
were going to go back to normal between them, with him dating his women and
her…well, her dating no one.

“That depends,” he finally said.

She raised a brow. “On what?”

“On whether you’re still planning on leaving SIG for greener
pastures. Are you?”

“Why does that matter?” She tried to inject a teasing note into
her voice. Anything to break through this odd, tense mood that was coursing
between them, but her attempt at humor failed. Neither of them was smiling.

“You know, the last time I went to bed with you, I woke up
alone in a cold bed. You might not know this about me, but I’m a big cuddler. If
we do this, if I prove my point to you, one last time,” he emphasized, “I’d like
to think you’d stick around for at least that.”

The lump in her throat was as huge as the sudden compulsion to
burst into tears. But nothing came close to the anticipation she was feeling. To
the desire that pounded through her. She wanted Jase. She wanted to make love to
him. To wallow in pure physical sensation with him.

And damn straight that included cuddling with him
afterward.

She nodded.

That was all.

Just nodded.

He rose, took her hand and together they walked out of
McGill’s.

* * *

S
HE
TOOK
HIM
BACK
to her place despite the refurbished living
room and accompanying new paint smell. They’d already made love in his bed, and
she wanted to savor holding him in her own. It would also help imprint the next
few hours into her memory, something she’d cherish in the years to come when she
no longer had him.

Slowly, Jase tugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair.
Next, he removed his holster and gun and laid it on the bed. Carrie stared at
the gun and felt the sturdy weight of her own against her side.

“Come here, Carrie,” he said, his voice low.

When she stood in front of him, he tugged her jacket back.
Obediently, she moved her arms, enabling him to ease the jacket off. With the
same precise movements he’d used to remove his own holster, Jase unsnapped hers,
sliding her piece off her body. Instinctively, unused to another person removing
her holster, she almost reached for it, but she just managed to stop herself.
Jase picked up his own holster from the bed and put both of them on the
nightstand table. Within reach if they needed them, but to the side. Business
making way for pleasure.

It was still a concept she wasn’t used to, but she was
beginning to learn. Because of Jase.

He unbuttoned her shirt while she continued to stare at him,
unmoving. Jase looked grim, his eyelids heavy with desire and intent. Their
breaths were loud in the quiet room. She should be saying something, shouldn’t
she? Doing something? But instead she was just compliantly letting him undress
her. Why? And more importantly, as she had the first night they’d had sex, she
asked herself why it felt so good to give him control. To let down her guard and
be completely vulnerable to a man again. Vulnerable in a way she hadn’t allowed
herself to be with a man since…

Dark memories threatened to intrude, and ruthlessly she pushed
them away. Jase knew she’d been raped, and as far as his theories on nature and
nurture were concerned…she knew the rape had stained her belief in men. It had,
in fact, stained her view on life in general, but she wasn’t going to let her
past ruin this moment.

He unbuttoned her pants and tugged them down along with her
lilac panties. Obediently, she stepped out of them until she was completely
naked in front of him.

His eyes traveled over her body, and every inch of her warmed,
as if his gaze was the lit match and her body the kindling. But still he didn’t
touch her.

Why wouldn’t he touch her?

But she knew. He’d taken the lead, but he still wanted full
participation from her. He wasn’t going to let her be passive, after all.

Swallowing loudly, Carrie reached out. Swiftly, she unbuttoned
his shirt, then, without removing it, unfastened his pants while her mouth
trailed kisses against his hard muscles. She inhaled, taking in his intoxicating
scent. He smelled good. Right.

He hissed when she licked him. The evidence of her effect on
him filled her with excitement, and she slipped her hand into the front of
Jase’s open pants to cup him. He groaned, lifted his hands and cupped her
breasts.

She jumped.

“Cold?” he whispered, his voice strained.

She shook her head. “With your hands where they are? Not at
all. You?”

He barked with laughter. “With your hand where it is?
Hardly.”

She smiled against his warm skin, then moaned when he lightly
tweaked her nipples.

“Come up here,” he urged. “I want to kiss you.”

Obediently, she rose up, and his mouth lowered to hers.

At first, she couldn’t lose herself in the kiss. Instead, she
made note of his technique. Like a good detective, she analyzed for clues based
on angle, pressure and speed. How good was he? Off the charts. A world-class
expert.

He pulled back, breathing hard, and narrowed his eyes at her.
“What are you thinking?
Why
are you thinking?”

“Just that you’re a good kisser. Must be all the practice
you’ve had,” she joked.

He tilted his head and frowned. She wondered if she’d made him
mad.

“If you can still think that, I obviously haven’t practiced
enough.” He cupped her neck, stroking it lightly. Making her feel even more
vulnerable than before. “Let me in, Carrie.”

“I am. You’re here. Soon you’ll literally be inside me.”

“Not enough. Let me
in.
Even if
it’s only for now. For as long as we’re making love. Let me past your
guard.”