скачать книгу бесплатно
“If you would prefer Mr. Chamberlain leave us at this juncture, I’m sure he wouldn’t object.” Sunny prayed the woman would take her up on her offer. Regardless of how immature or hypocritical, the idea of dissecting the intimate details of Margo’s liaison with the UNSUB in Duncan Chamberlain’s presence made her want to squirm.
Upon joining the Bureau, her first assignment had been conducting in-depth background investigations. She’d interviewed countless witnesses and delved into various backgrounds, from the lowest government employee all the way up the ladder to some of the country’s top political officials. As a result, she’d uncovered odd quirks, stranger-than-fiction habits and more than a few bizarre sexual appetites. At first she’d been shocked by the information she’d uncovered, but since she was determined to become a player on the FBI’s team of profilers, she’d conditioned herself to take it all in stride. Violent crime and sexual homicide were hardly a job for the squeamish.
So where the hell had the cool professionalism, the detachment, the composure she’d consciously developed, gone when she needed it most?
“I was his canvas,” Margo blurted.
Sunny’s eyebrows shot upward. “Excuse me?” Certainly, she misunderstood the implication. As much as it pained her to do so in front of Duncan, she asked, “Could you be more specific?”
Margo’s expression remained composed, as if she were about to discuss the last social event she’d attended rather than her sexual exploits with a con man. “I was his canvas,” she repeated. “He liked to paint me with scented oil.”
At a loss for words, Sunny started at the woman. No. She absolutely had not heard what she thought she’d heard. Maybe Margo was making some obscure reference to the night Abbott had taken her to the fake gallery. Yes, that was it, a reference to the art gallery. She hoped.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” Sunny said. “He put scented oil on one of the paintings?”
“He didn’t paint on a traditional canvas,” Margo clarified. “He asked me to be his canvas. At first I was nervous—what he was asking was so…unorthodox—but I must admit, I’ve never experienced anything so completely erotic in my life.”
An image flashed in Sunny’s mind. Marble floors, bronze sculptures, paintings by masters she couldn’t name hanging on unobtrusive-colored walls. And Duncan. His heat, his body surrounding her, pressing her up against the smooth, cool plaster, his hands slowly caressing her breasts…his mouth hot, demanding…
Sunny grew more uncomfortable by the second. Find a way into her head, she reminded herself. Become the victim.
“Was this…technique something he did each time you made love?” she forced herself to ask. “Did he often use…props?”
Margo nodded. Another wistful smile slowly tilted her lips. “Justin was an incredible master at foreplay.”
Against her will, Sunny’s gaze slid to Duncan. Her breath caught at the intensity shining in his brilliant blue-gray eyes as he returned her stare. Was he a master at foreplay, she wondered?
Please, please, please.
Sunny bit her bottom lip to squelch the moan bubbling up inside her. She couldn’t very well close her eyes in the middle of an interview, so instead she remained entranced by the blatant heat in Duncan’s gaze.
Losing herself in the fantasy, she listened to Margo’s words, mentally placing herself in the role of willing victim. No faceless UNSUB twirled a painter’s whiskered brush over her nipples. In her mind she saw the handsomely chiseled features of the man across from her, felt the strength of his hands on her body.
Her breathing turned shallow as pure hunger filled his gaze. Was he transported by the same wild fantasy?
“He’d start by using a variety of brushes, each one tipped in oil, warmed precisely to 98.6 degrees,” Margo explained. “And then he’d stroke them over my nude body.”
Sunny could have sworn Duncan physically stroked her just as seductively when his gaze traveled the length of her. Oh, this was not good.
Margo continued to speak of the intimacy and sensuality Abbott had demanded of her. Sunny envisioned Duncan’s mouth covering hers, kissing her deeply while he painted her flesh at his leisure. The slick, moist oil against her skin, his hands pressing her thighs open, exploring, painting, touching…kissing her intimately.
There was nothing imaginary about the pressure between her legs, only the reality of the insistent need clawing at her, reminding her it’d been months since her last sexual encounter. The incredible sensitivity of her breasts as they swelled and tightened inside the cups of her sensible cotton bra served as another reminder that reality had indeed intruded upon fantasy.
A serene expression encompassed Margo’s face and her gaze slipped to somewhere over Sunny’s shoulder. “Justin was slow, very deliberate in my pleasure,” she said. “He exposed me so completely, his exploration erotic and incredibly thorough. I never realized the depths of sensuality until I met Justin, or understand how many places on our bodies were capable of providing fulfillment. He even asked me to touch myself in front of him, to make believe my hands were his hands stroking me. I was so completely entranced by the hypnotic sound of his voice as he described various acts of making love and the depths of pleasure he promised me, I never felt an ounce of embarrassment the first time I came that way in front of him.
“With Justin I became a greedy, decadent lover,” Margo continued in that same faraway voice. “Becoming aroused and bringing about my own fulfillment for the pleasure of a man was unlike anything I’d ever known. Not once did I contemplate holding back. I willingly gave him everything he wanted from me.”
Sunny remained fully conscious of the reality of Duncan’s presence. Not only physically, but prominently in her mind where she pleasured herself for him. The fantasy was wild, uninhibited and erotic on a level she’d never dreamed possible.
She’d gone too far. Climbing inside the victim’s head was one thing. It was quite another for her to become so thoroughly aroused by the mere image of making love to Duncan that she couldn’t do her job.
The need to escape overwhelmed her. She had to leave. Now. Right now, before she went up in flames.
But departure was not an option. Dammit, she was supposed to be a professional. If it killed her, she’d get through this interview. She forced her gaze away from Duncan to concentrate on the witness. Thank heavens she’d had the foresight to record the session, although replaying Margo’s erotic recounting of events did fill her with a modicum of dread.
For the next thirty minutes she continued to question Margo, obtaining details of the property stolen from her, the type of car the Seducer drove and the like, until she’d miraculously made it through all the questions on her list. Her body still hummed with awareness, but if she refused to so much as glance in Duncan’s direction, she remained hopeful of bringing the interview to a conclusion without going up in flames.
Her hand shook as she reached for the tape recorder. After fumbling with the switch, she dropped it into her briefcase along with her notepad. “I need…” A cold shower. Preferably with ice water. “I’ll need to schedule another appointment,” she said, not the least bit surprised her voice trembled. Her nerve endings were still vibrantly alive with sexual awareness. “I’d like to bring in a sketch artist for a composite.”
Still ignoring Duncan, she stood and faced Margo, extending her hand for another polite, limp handshake. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll wait for your call,” Margo said graciously.
She made the mistake of glancing in Duncan’s direction. A smooth, lazy smile canted his mouth. The look in his eyes nearly did send her up in flames.
“I can see myself out,” she said, anxious to put a whole lot of distance between herself and Duncan’s knowing, I-want-you eyes.
Offering only a weak, apologetic semblance of a smile, she bolted from the room and hurried down the paneled corridor toward safety…er, the exit. She had a single moment’s hesitation about leaving Duncan alone with the witness, but she was too close to freedom now to turn back. Besides, he did have a right to be there since he’d been hired by Wilder’s insurance carrier to recover her stolen property.
She let herself out, shaken by the knowledge that not all lessons were easily learned. Still, she finally had firsthand knowledge of what Margo had meant by being so completely caught up in a storm of passion that nothing else mattered…except absolute pleasure.
3
SUNNY PROPPED HER bottom on the edge of her desk and faced the U.S. map pinned to the wall of her closetlike, windowless office. Tapping her index finger against her lips, she studied the neon-orange pinheads. Seattle, Napa Valley, St. Louis, Atlanta, Miami, Philadelphia and Baltimore. “Random choices?” she mused aloud. “Or preselected for reasons we still haven’t determined?”
Georgia Tremont, a tall, willowy redhead fresh from Quantico consulted the computer printout in her lap. “The computer wasn’t able to establish a pattern to the UNSUB’s choice of locations,” she reminded Sunny. As one of a handful of analysts employed by the unit, Georgia’s job was to dissect evidence and other pertinent data provided by the senior agents in charge of investigations. “I say random.”
“Possibly,” Sunny said slowly. Her instincts told her otherwise. And she always trusted her instincts.
“Computers aren’t infallible,” Ned Ball added. “I don’t trust them.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” Georgia laughed. “For a guy who investigates Internet fraud.”
“Among other things.” Ned pushed his glasses back in place. “But that’s my point. Computers make it easier for the criminals. The Net is a hotbed of illegal activity.”
Georgia rolled her big blue eyes. “It’s not the computers, or the Internet, Ned, but the people using them.”
Sunny pushed off the desk. “Play nice now, kiddies,” she teased the rookie agents. “We’re supposed to be brainstorming here, not debating the alleged evils of the information superhighway.”
For a guy who claimed he didn’t trust computers, Ned Ball was the CID’s answer to Bill Gates and Steve Jobs all rolled into one pocket-protector-sporting computer nerd. The guy was golden when it came to ferreting out glitches, back doors and security hazards. His first week in the unit, he’d single-handedly tracked down the developer of a nasty e-mail worm responsible for temporarily shutting down the computer system of several of the nation’s banks.
Sunny dropped into the chair behind her desk. “Georgia, any word on those search warrants yet?”
“Sorry, Mac. We’re still waiting. I put another call in to the clerk half an hour ago, and she said the judge was still on the bench in closed session.”
Frustration bit into Sunny hard. Upon returning from the Wilder estate, she’d obtained authorization from the unit chief to have the crime lab search the art gallery and theater. She’d had the paperwork prepared and sent to the judge for signature within the hour. Three hours later and still no warrants. “Can’t you find another federal magistrate in this town? We need those warrants signed so the lab can get moving on this.”
Ned dropped a sheaf of papers on the edge of Sunny’s desk and frowned. “If this was a violent crime, the scenes would’ve been searched already,” he complained.
“True,” Georgia commiserated. “But we should be thankful these aren’t violent crimes.” She looked back at Sunny. “Do you really expect the lab to find anything after all this time?”
“Maybe. If we’re lucky, they’ll give us something new to go on,” Sunny said, but she wasn’t about to pin her hopes on the lab turning up viable evidence. For one, it’d been over two weeks since Wilder accompanied the UNSUB to the theater. Countless individuals had no doubt contaminated the private box, from patrons to theater staff and cleaning crews. With any luck at all, they might turn up physical evidence from the art gallery since the place was closed, but even she had to admit it was unlikely. They already had the guy’s DNA from four of the known crime scenes, but no identifying factors to provide them with a name. All she could realistically hope for would be a match confirming Abbott was their UNSUB.
Georgia offered her a sympathetic smile. “The clerk did promise to call as soon as the warrants were signed.”
Sunny frowned at the silent phone, wishing Duncan would return her call. Whether or not he could give her the information necessary to form that pattern she suspected existed, she could only guess. She wanted to know more about those two cases he’d mentioned he was investigating in addition to Wilder. Were the claimants on her existing list of victims? If not, that would bring the total number of victims to nine nationwide. And if there were more victims, why hadn’t local authorities advised her office when she’d published an alert weeks ago?
Because SEDSCAM was a nonviolent crime, she reminded herself, making it a low priority for local jurisdictions. If rich, affluent, campaign-dollar-contributing women were being raped, murdered and dumped along the roadside for Joe Citizen to discover on his morning jog, she’d have the high-ranking officials from those cities storming her office demanding action.
By sheer accident they’d discovered the connection to Wilder, albeit five days after the fact. The credit belonged solely to Georgia for bringing an article in the newspaper about the theft to Sunny’s attention. If the incident hadn’t occurred in their own backyard, or if the Wilder name hadn’t attracted press coverage, weeks may have passed before they’d been notified, if at all. She’d acted quickly and rather than dealing with the usual pissing contest over jurisdiction, the local authorities had been happy to hand the investigation off to her.
The time factor was short in relation to the other cases, not that it had garnered her much headway with regard to solid leads thus far. They still had no idea where the UNSUB might strike next, where he went after pulling a job or what he did with the millions in cash and property he’d lifted from the vics.
Sunny let out a frustrated sigh. “I need to get a visual on this case.” She dragged a yellow legal pad in front of her and drew two lines down the page. “What do we know? What do we suspect? What can we prove?” Once she had a list, the entries would go onto three-by-five index cards which she’d be able to move around on a chart, like a giant jigsaw puzzle.
“We know there are seven vics in seven different states and no confirmed pattern,” Ned started. “We also know one man is responsible for at least four of the crimes based on DNA evidence collected.”
Georgia flipped through her printouts. “DNA was collected from hair samples in Philly and St. Louis. Miami from a cigar stub…” Confusion filled her blue eyes when she looked up at Sunny and Ned. “A sweatband from the Atlanta location?”
Sunny shrugged and entered the names of the victims and their geographic locations in the first column, followed by the DNA links. “We suspect he’s responsible for all seven crimes.” She looked up at the two rookie agents. “There’s a possibility we could have nine victims. A recovery expert hired by Wilder’s insurance carrier was at the estate this morning. In addition to Wilder, he claims his office is handling two additional cases with similar M.O.’s.”
“Did you get the names?” Georgia asked. “Do you know which locations?”
“Not yet,” Sunny answered. She wasn’t proud of the fact she’d been so thoroughly distracted by the awareness sizzling between her and Duncan that she’d failed to ask him even a few pertinent questions regarding his investigations. “I’ve left a message for him.”
Georgia moved the printouts and other documents from her lap to the floor, then reached across Sunny’s desk for the file containing the six composite sketches of the UNSUB they’d obtained from the victims. “Which of these four guys match our DNA evidence?” she asked.
“Ian Banyon, Burke Conners, Scott Kauffman.” Sunny consulted her notes. “And Adam Hunt.”
Georgia separated the four composites, helped herself to the plastic box of pushpins from Sunny’s drawer, then hung the four sketches on the wall near the map. “Okay, now give me the order?”
“Conners first in St. Louis, Atlanta was Hunt,” Sunny told her. “Miami is Banyon, and put Kauffman last for Philly.”
Georgia pulled the neon-orange pins from the map, exchanging them for bright yellow, then arranged the composites in corresponding order. She stood back and examined the map, then looked over her shoulder to Sunny and Ned with a satisfied smile. “Do you see it?”
Sunny pushed out of her chair and moved in to get a closer look at the map.
“He’s getting sloppy,” Ned suggested from behind her. He indicated the first two locations with the tip of a pen. “Seattle and Napa produced no DNA evidence. The UNSUB was careful, cautious. By the time he got here,” he said, pointing to the yellow pinhead marking the St. Louis crime scene, “his confidence was up, so he relaxed and got careless.”
“I don’t think so,” Sunny said. “He’s not careless, he’s very thorough and methodical. I’d suggest arrogance, but you don’t get cocky from only two successful jobs. Plus, it was a hair sample found in the drain pipe of the victim’s shower in St. Louis, so that could be a fluke. By the time he hit Miami, it may have been intentional if he’s playing with us, but our involvement isn’t public yet. If there’s any meat to Ned’s theory, though, then we have more crimes to worry about.”
She looked over at Georgia. “Can you pull all the data reported from crimes in the last two years that match our UNSUB’s M.O.?”
“I can try,” she said, but didn’t look too hopeful. “If the stats aren’t entered into the national database, there’s not much I can do.”
“They usually don’t bother,” Ned added, “unless it involves a violent crime. On the surface these have the characteristics of theft. That’s not something anyone would commonly associate with a serial-type offender.”
Sunny turned her attention back to the composite sketches. “See what you can find anyway,” she said to Georgia. “I know it’s a long shot, but we could find gold.”
“The lab could come up with more DNA from Wilder’s place,” Georgia suggested. “How long before you’ll hear something?”
“Could be days.” Sunny moved closer to the map, meticulously studying each sketch for what had to be the six hundredth time. She was missing something…but what?
Ned adjusted his glasses and peered at the sketches of Burke Connors and Ian Banyon. “How does he do it?” he asked. “How does he manage to completely alter his appearance? I see basic similarities, but it just doesn’t look like the same guy. You know, I could style my hair differently, wear contacts, but I’d still look like me.”
“I know what you mean,” Georgia agreed. “I could go brunette or blond but I’d still be me. If it wasn’t for the evidence, I’d swear we should be looking for four different men. Nothing suggests this is the same person. It’s spooky.”
“Oh my God,” Sunny blurted. “That’s it!” She turned to look at the two agents and grinned. “These are not sketches of the same person.”
Georgia took a step back and looked down at Sunny as if she’d lost her mind. “Come on, Mac. You’re reaching. The evidence indicates otherwise.”
“I’m not refuting the evidence,” Sunny explained. “Stay with me a minute.” She went to her desk for the remaining two composites, then pinned them to the wall above the other four drawings.
“Marcus Wood.” She pointed to the first sketch. “Tansey Middleton’s favorite cause is animal rights. She writes big checks to support no-kill shelters and foots the bill for an adopt-a-pet event twice a year. Wood comes along posing as a dog-loving, animal-rights activist.”
Ned folded his arms and rocked back on the heels of his polished wingtips. “Yeah, so?”
“Maddie Bryson takes over the operation of the family vineyard when her brother loses a lengthy battle with cancer. To recoup their losses, Maddie explores the possibility of exporting their award-winning Napa Valley grapes to several French winemakers. Travis Reisner shows up claiming to be a buyer for a French winemaker.”
Georgia’s eyes filled with understanding. “Joy Tweed is a professional college student,” she said. “Some guys don’t change their socks as often as Joy changes majors. She’s what they used to call an M.R.S. degree candidate way back when. Burke Connors is a Ph.D. candidate, another professional student, in Joy Tweed’s eyes.”
“Exactly,” Sunny agreed. “Bettina Manchester falls for the supposed owner of a chain of sporting goods stores. Celine Garfield is conned by a guy posing as an importer of Egyptian artifacts. Scott Kaufman is a rich playboy for a socialite, and Justin Abbott is a patron of the arts to an art connoisseur.”
Ned pushed his glasses up the slope of his nose again and studied each of the composites more closely. He looked over his shoulder at Sunny, his pale blond brows knit in confusion. “Sorry, Mac. I’m not following you.”
Sunny tapped her finger on the first drawing. “Doesn’t Marcus Wood look like one of those lunatics that would run through a dog show opening cages, freeing the dogs in the name of animal rights? And Conners here has egghead professor written all over him.” Next she indicated the composite drawing of Adam Hunt. “This guy looks like a jock, just the kind of guy you’d expect would own a chain of sporting goods stores.”
Ned scratched the back of his head. “I still don’t see what you’re saying.”
“Each of these drawings appear to be a completely different guy, right?” She waited for Ned and Georgia’s acknowledgment before continuing. “That’s because the vics aren’t remembering the way the UNSUB actually looks, but how they saw him. The composites aren’t going to give us an accurate physical description because they aren’t of the actual man, but of the image he portrayed to his victims.”
“It is an interesting theory,” Georgia said. “Didn’t Celine Garfield say that Banyon spoke with some sort of British, or maybe a South African, accent?”
“She did,” Sunny confirmed. “And when Wilder sits down with the sketch artist tomorrow, if the composite of Justin Abbott isn’t a perfect example of a patron-of-the-arts type, lunch is on me.”
Ned still didn’t look as convinced as Georgia. “The UNSUB’s ability to transform himself may very well be his recipe for success,” he eventually conceded, “but how is your theory going to lead us to him?”
Undaunted by Ned’s lack of vision, Sunny’s smile widened. “We might be able to narrow down possible locations since we know what attracts him.”
“Money,” Georgia added. “A whole lot of money.”
“You’re talking haystacks and needles, Mac,” Ned argued. “You know how many people in this country come into big bucks every day? How many of them are women? A new millionaire comes along every couple of weeks if all the state lottery stats are accurate.”
“But we’re only interested in the perpetually single and recently unattached,” Georgia added helpfully. “That should narrow the field considerably.”
“Divorcées, widows,” Sunny told the analyst. “Any woman between the ages of twenty and fifty-five that fits the profile.”
“I’ll play with some data, see what comes up.”
