скачать книгу бесплатно
The headline said it all—Serial Rapist Linked to Coronado SEALs?
Lucky swore pungently. “Serial rapist? This is the first I’ve heard of this.”
“It’s the first any of us have heard of this,” Frisco said grimly. “But apparently there’s been a series of rapes in Coronado and San Felipe over the past few weeks. And with the latest—it happened two nights ago—the police now believe there’s some kind of connection linking the attacks. Or so they say.”
Lucky quickly skimmed the article. There were very few facts about the attacks—seven—or about the victims. The only mention of the women who’d been attacked was of the latest—an unnamed 19-year-old college student. In all cases, the rapist wore a feature-distorting pair of panty hose on his head, but he was described as a Caucasian man with a crew cut, with either brown or dark blond hair, approximately six feet tall, muscularly built and about thirty years of age.
The article focused on ways in which women in both towns could ensure their safety. One of the tips recommended was to stay away—far away—from the U.S. Navy base.
The article ended with the nebulous statement, “When asked about the rumored connection of the serial rapist to the Coronado naval base, and in particular to the teams of SEALs stationed there, the police spokesman replied, ‘Our investigation will be thorough, and the military base is a good place to start.’
“Known for their unconventional fighting techniques as well as their lack of discipline, the SEALs have had their presence felt in the towns of Coronado and San Felipe many times in the past, with late-night and early-morning explosions often startling the guests at the famed Hotel del Coronado. Lieutenant Commander Alan Francisco of the SEALs could not be reached for comment.”
Lucky swore again. “Way to make us look like the spawn of Satan. And let me guess just how hard—” he looked at the top of the article for the reporter’s name “—this S. Jameson guy tried to reach you for comment.”
“Oh, the reporter tried,” Frisco countered as he began moving toward the jeep that would take him across the base to his office. Lucky could tell from the way he leaned on his cane that his knee was hurting today. “But I stayed hidden. I didn’t want to say anything to alienate the police until I had the chance to talk to Admiral Forrest. And he agreed with my plan.”
“Which is…?”
“There’s a task force being formed to catch this son of a bitch,” Frisco told him. “Both the Coronado and San Felipe police are part of it—as well as the state police, and a special unit from FInCOM. The admiral pulled some strings, and got us included. That’s why I went to see Cat and Harvard. I need an officer I can count on to be part of this task force. Someone I can trust.”
Someone exactly like Lucky. He nodded. “When do I start?”
“There’s a meeting in the San Felipe police station at 0900 hours. Meet me in my office—we’ll go down there together. Wear your whites and every ribbon you’ve got.” Frisco climbed behind the wheel of the jeep, tossing his cane into the back. “There’s more, too. I want you to handpick a team, and I want you to catch this bastard. As quickly as possible. If the perp is a spec-warrior, we’re going to need more than a task force to nail him.”
Lucky held on to the side of the jeep. “Do you really think this guy could be one of us?”
Frisco shook his head. “I don’t know. I hope to hell he’s not.”
The rapist had attacked seven women—one of them a girl just a little bit younger than his sister. And Lucky knew that it didn’t matter who this bastard was. It only mattered that they stop him before he struck again.
“Whoever he is,” he promised his best friend and commanding officer, “I’ll find him. And after I do, he’s going to be sorry he was born.”
SYDNEY WAS RELIEVED TO find she wasn’t the only woman in the room. She was glad to see that Police Detective Lucy McCoy was part of the task force being set up this morning, its single goal: to catch the San Felipe Rapist.
Out of the seven attacks, five had taken place in the lower-rent town of San Felipe. And although the two towns were high-school sports-team rivals, this was one case in which Coronado was more than happy to let San Felipe take the title.
They’d gathered here at the San Felipe police station ready to work together to apprehend the rapist.
Syd had first met Detective Lucy McCoy last Saturday night. The detective had arrived on the scene at Gina Sokoloski’s apartment clearly pulled out of bed, her face clean of makeup, her shirt buttoned wrong—and spitting mad that she hadn’t been called sooner.
Syd had been fiercely guarding Gina, who was frighteningly glassy-eyed and silent after the trauma of her attack.
The male detectives had tried to be gentle, but even gentle couldn’t cut it at a time like this. Can you tell us what happened, miss?
Sheesh. As if Gina would be able to look up at these men and tell them how she’d turned to find a man in her living room, how he’d grabbed her before she could run, slapped his hand across her mouth before she could scream, and then…
And then that Neanderthal who had nearly run Syd down on the stairs had raped this girl. Brutally. Violently. Syd would’ve bet good money that she had been a virgin, poor shy little thing. What an awful way to be introduced to sex.
Syd had wrapped her arms tightly around the girl, and told the detectives in no uncertain terms that they had better get a woman down here, pronto. After what Gina had been through, she didn’t need to suffer the embarrassment of having to talk about it with a man.
But Gina had told Detective Lucy McCoy all of it, in a voice that was completely devoid of emotion—as if she were reporting facts that had happened to someone else, not herself.
She’d tried to hide. She’d cowered in the corner, and he hit her. And hit her. And then he was on top of her, tearing her clothing and forcing himself between her legs. With his hands around her throat, she’d struggled even just to breathe, and he’d…
Lucy had quietly explained about the rape kit, explained about the doctor’s examination that Gina still had to endure, explained that as much as Gina wanted to, she couldn’t take a shower. Not yet.
Lucy had explained that the more Gina could tell her about the man who’d attacked her, the better their chances were of catching him. If there was anything more she could report about the words he’d spoken, any little detail she may have left out….
Syd had described the man who nearly knocked her over on the stairs. The lighting was bad. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him. In fact, she couldn’t even be sure that he wasn’t still wearing the nylon stocking over his face that Gina had described. But she could guess at his height—taller than she was, and his build—powerful—and she could say for a fact that he was a white male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age, with very short, crew-cut hair.
And he spoke in a low-pitched, accentless voice. Sorry, bud.
It was weird and creepy to think that a man who’d brutalized Gina would have taken the time to apologize for bumping into Syd. It was also weird and creepy to think that if Syd had been home, she might have heard the noise of the struggle, heard Gina’s muffled cries and might’ve been able to help.
Or, perhaps Syd might’ve been the victim herself.
Before they’d headed over to the hospital, Gina had loosened her grip on the torn front of her shirt and showed Lucy and Syd a burn. The son of a bitch had branded the girl on her breast, in what looked like the shape of a bird.
Lucy had stiffened, clearly recognizing the marking. She’d excused herself, and found the other detectives. And although she’d spoken in a lowered voice, Syd had moved to the door so she could hear.
“It’s our guy again,” Lucy McCoy had grimly told the other detectives. “Gina’s been burned with a Budweiser, too.”
Our guy again. When Syd asked if there had been other similar attacks, Lucy had bluntly told her that she wasn’t at liberty to discuss that.
Syd had gone to the hospital with the girl, staying with her until her mother arrived.
But then, despite the fact that it was three o’clock in the morning, there were too many unanswered questions for Syd to go home and go to sleep. As a former investigative reporter, she knew a thing or two about finding answers to unanswered questions. A few well-placed phone calls connected her to Silva Fontaine, a woman on the late-night shift at the hospital’s Rape Counseling Center. Silva had informed Syd that six women had come in in half as many weeks. Six women who hadn’t been attacked by husbands or boyfriends or relatives or co-workers. Six women who had been attacked in their own homes by an unknown assailant. Same as Gina.
A little research on the Internet had turned up the fact that a budweiser wasn’t just a bottle of beer. U.S. Navy personnel who went through the rigorous Basic Underwater Demolition Training over at the SEAL facility in nearby Coronado were given a pin in the shape of a flying eagle carrying a trident and a stylized gun, upon their entrance into the SEAL units.
This pin was nicknamed a budweiser.
Every U.S. Navy SEAL had one. It represented the SEAL acronym of sea, air and land, the three environments in which the commando-like men expertly operated. In other words, they jumped out of planes, soaring through the air with specially designed parachutes as easily as they crawled through jungle, desert or city, as easily as they swam through the deep waters of the sea.
They had a near-endless list of warrior qualifications—everything from hand-to-hand combat to high-tech computer warfare, underwater demolition to sniper-quality marksmanship. They could pilot planes or boats, operate tanks and land vehicles.
Although it wasn’t listed, they could also, no doubt, leap tall buildings with a single bound.
Yeah, the list was impressive. It was kind of like looking at Superman’s resume.
But it was also alarming.
Because this superhero had turned bad. For weeks, some psycho Navy SEAL had been stalking the women of San Felipe. Seven women had been brutally attacked, yet there had been no warnings issued, no news reports telling women to take caution.
Syd had been furious.
She’d spent the rest of the night writing.
And in the morning, she’d gone to the police station, the freelance article she’d written for the San Felipe Journal in hand.
She’d been shown into Chief Zale’s office and negotiations had started. The San Felipe police didn’t want any information about the attacks to be publicized. When Zale found out Syd was a freelance reporter, and that she’d been there at the crime scene for hours last night, he’d nearly had an aneurysm. He was convinced that if this story broke, the rapist would go into deep hiding and they’d never apprehend him. The chief told Syd flatly that the police didn’t know for certain if all seven of the attacks had been made by the same man—the branding of the victim with the budweiser pin had only been done to Gina and one other woman.
Zale had demanded Syd hold all the detailed information about the recent attacks. Syd had countered with a request to write the exclusive story after the rapist was caught, to sit in with the task force being formed to apprehend the rapist—provided she could write a series of police-approved articles for the local papers, now warning women of the threat.
Zale had had a cow.
Syd had stood firm despite being blustered at for several hours, and eventually Zale had conceded. But, wow, had he been ticked off.
Still, here she was. Sitting in with the task force.
She recognized the police chief and several detectives from Coronado, as well as several representatives from the California State Police. And although no one introduced her, she caught the names of a trio of FInCOM Agents, as well. Huang, Sudenberg and Novak—she jotted their names in her notebook.
It was funny to watch them interact. Coronado didn’t think much of San Felipe, and vice versa. However, both groups preferred each other over the state troopers. The Finks simply remained aloof. Yet solidarity was formed—at least in part—when the U.S. Navy made the scene.
“Sorry, I’m late.” The man in the doorway was blindingly handsome—the blinding due in part to the bright white of his naval uniform and the dazzling rows of colorful ribbons on his chest. But only in part. His face was that of a movie star, with an elegantly thin nose that hinted of aristocracy, and eyes that redefined the word blue. His hair was sunstreaked and stylishly long in front. Right now it was combed neatly back, but with one puff of wind, or even a brief blast of humidity, it would be dancing around his face, waving tendrils of spun gold. His skin was perfectly tanned—the better to show off the white flash of his teeth as he smiled.
He was, without a doubt, the sheer perfection of a Ken doll come to life.
Syd wasn’t sure, but she thought the braids on his sleeves meant he was some sort of officer.
The living Ken—with all of his U.S. Navy accessories—somehow managed to squeeze his extremely broad shoulders through the door. He stepped into the room. “Lieutenant Commander Francisco asked me to convey his regrets.” His voice was a melodic baritone, slightly husky with just a trace of Southern California, dude. “There’s been a serious training accident on the base, and he was unable to leave.”
San Felipe Detective Lucy McCoy leaned forward. “Is everyone all right?”
“Hey, Lucy.” He bestowed a brief but special smile upon the female detective. It didn’t surprise Syd one bit that he should know the pretty brunette by name. “We got a SEAL candidate in a DDC—a deck decompression chamber. Frisco—Lieutenant Commander Francisco—had to fly out to the site with some of the doctors from the naval hospital. It was a routine dive, everything was done completely by the book—until one of the candidates started showing symptoms of the bends—while he was in the water. They still don’t know what the hell went wrong. Bobby got him out and back on board, and popped him in the DDC, but from his description, it sounds like this guy’s already had a CNS hit—a central nervous system hit,” he translated. “You know, when a nitrogen bubble expands in the brain.” He shook his head, his blue eyes somber, his pretty mouth grim. “Even if this man survives, he could be seriously brain damaged.”
U.S. Navy Ken sat down in the only unoccupied chair at the table, directly across from Sydney, as he glanced around the room. “I’m sure you all understand Lieutenant Commander Francisco’s need to look into this situation immediately.”
Syd tried not to stare, but it was hard. At three feet away, she should have been able to see this man’s imperfections—if not quite a wart, then maybe a chipped tooth. Some nose hair at least.
But at three feet away, he was even more gorgeous. And he smelled good, too.
Chief Zale gave him a baleful look. “And you are…?”
Navy Ken half stood up again. “I’m sorry. Of course, I should have introduced myself.” His smile was sheepish. Gosh darn it, it said, I plumb forgot that not everybody here knows who I am, wonderful though I may be. “Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon, of the U.S. Navy SEALs.”
Syd didn’t have to be an expert at reading body language to know that everyone in the room—at least everyone male—hated the Navy. And if they hadn’t before, they sure did now. The jealousy in the room was practically palpable. Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon gleamed. He shone. He was all white and gold and sunlight and sky-blue eyes.
He was a god. The mighty king of all Ken dolls.
And he knew it.
His glance touched Syd only briefly as he looked around the room, taking inventory of the police and FInCOM personnel. But as Zale’s assistant passed out manila files, Navy Ken’s gaze settled back on Syd. He smiled, and it was such a perfect, slightly puzzled smile, Syd nearly laughed aloud. Any second now and he was going to ask her who she was.
“Are you FInCOM?” he mouthed to her, taking the file that was passed to him and warmly nodding his thanks to the Coronado detective who was sitting beside him.
Syd shook her head, no.
“From the Coronado PD?” he asked silently.
Zale had begun to speak, and Syd shook her head again, then pointedly turned her attention to the head of the table.
The San Felipe police chief spoke at length about stepping up patrol cars in the areas where the rapes had taken place. He spoke of a team that would be working around the clock, attempting to find a pattern in the locations of the attacks, or among the seven victims. He talked about semen samples and DNA. He glared at Syd as he spoke of the need to keep the details of the crimes, of the rapist’s MO—method of operation—from leaking to the public. He brought up the nasty little matter of the SEAL pin, heated by the flame from a cigarette lighter and used to burn a mark onto the bodies of the last two victims.
Navy Ken cleared his throat and interrupted. “I’m sure it’s occurred to you that if this guy were a SEAL, he’d have to be pretty stupid to advertise it this way. Isn’t it much more likely that he’s trying to make you believe he’s a SEAL?”
“Absolutely,” Zale responded. “Which is why we implied that we thought he was a SEAL in the article that came out in this morning’s paper. We want him to think he’s winning, to become careless.”
“So you don’t think he’s a SEAL,” the SEAL tried to clarify.
“Maybe,” Syd volunteered, “he’s a SEAL who wants to be caught.”
Navy Ken’s eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her, clearly thinking hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know just about everyone else here, but we haven’t been introduced. Are you a police psychologist?”
Zale didn’t let Syd reply. “Ms. Jameson is going to be working very closely with you, Lieutenant.”
Ms. not Doctor. Syd saw that information register in the SEAL’s eyes.
But then she realized what Zale had said and sat back in her chair. “I am?”
O’Donlon leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
Zale looked a little too pleased with himself. “Lieutenant Commander Francisco put in an official request to have a SEAL team be part of this task force. Detective McCoy convinced me that it might be a good idea. If our man is or was a SEAL, you may have better luck finding him.”
“I assure you, luck won’t be part of it, sir.”
Syd couldn’t believe O’Donlon’s audacity. The amazing part was that he spoke with such conviction. He actually believed himself.
“That remains to be seen,” Zale countered. “I’ve decided to give you permission to form this team, provided you keep Detective McCoy informed of your whereabouts and progress.”
“I can manage that.” O’Donlon flashed another of his smiles at Lucy McCoy. “In fact, it’ll be a pleasure.”
“Oh, ack.” Syd didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Navy Ken glanced at her in surprise.
“And provided,” Zale continued, “you agree to include Ms. Jameson in your team.”
The SEAL laughed. Yes, his teeth were perfect. “No,” he said, “Chief. You don’t understand. A SEAL team is a team of SEALs. Only SEALs. Ms. Jameson will—no offense, ma’am—only get in the way.”
“That’s something you’re just going to have to deal with,” Zale told him a little too happily. He didn’t like the Navy, and he didn’t like Syd. This was his way of getting back at them both. “I’m in charge of this task force. You do it my way, or your men don’t leave the naval base. There are other details to deal with, but Detective McCoy will review them with you.”
Syd’s brain was moving at warp speed. Zale thought he was getting away with something here—by casting her off on to the SEALs. But this was the real story—the one that would be unfolding within the confines of the naval base as well as without. She’d done enough research on the SEAL units over the past forty-odd hours to know that these unconventional spec-warriors would be eager to stop the bad press and find the San Felipe Rapist on their own. She was curious to find out what would happen if the rapist did turn out to be one of them. Would they try to hide it? Would they try to deal with punishment on their own terms?
The story she was going to write could be an in-depth look at one of America’s elite military organizations. And it could well be exactly what she needed to get herself noticed, to get that magazine editor position, back in New York City, that she wanted so desperately.
“I’m sorry.” O’Donlon started an awful lot of his sentences with an apology. “But there’s just no way a police social worker could keep up with—”
“I’m not a social worker,” Syd interrupted.
