Cold Fury, page 15
part #1 of Cold Justice® - Most Wanted Series
“The subject’s phone was at his house all night.”
Aaron didn’t know whether to be glad or sad. The idea of a cop vandalizing a headstone was abhorrent but at least it would be a known enemy. “Thank him for verifying.”
“I don’t think he’s done yet. I’ll let you know if he comes up with anything useful. I have to go. I want to check on a forensic psychologist I know who helped us during Leech’s trials. She didn’t want extra protection. Husband’s a former Marine. Said she was safe enough. But she didn’t pick up when I called this morning.”
Aaron didn’t like the sound of that. “Let me arrange backup.”
“I’m five minutes away from her house in Lincoln, and it could be as simple as her turning her phone off for work, but if you don’t hear from me in thirty minutes call the cops.” Frazer hung up.
Aaron looked at Hope in the deepening gloom of the late afternoon. Her eyes were haunted as she stiffly hunched her shoulders.
Aaron fought the urge to wrap his arm around her and give her a comforting squeeze. He didn’t want to turn into Brendan Harper with unwanted physical interactions. He needed to remember this wasn’t personal. It was professional. HRT didn’t spend millions of dollars training operators to hug people. That was what friends were for.
But Hope didn’t have any friends…
Fuck.
“Why can’t they find him?” she asked quietly.
Aaron shook his head. He didn’t know.
20
As soon as Frazer pulled up at the house on the outskirts of Lincoln, Massachusetts, he knew something was off. Sylvie Pomerol lived a few short miles from where the first shots had been fired in the Revolutionary War. She was a small, thoughtful woman in her early forties who took her job seriously and traveled all over the US to present expert testimony and perform assessments of various crimes and criminals.
Trees encircled the property and gave it that secluded forest feel that had never appealed to him. Too many boogey men hid in the woods. Too many shadows. He and Izzy had found a place overlooking the Potomac that fed his love of openness and her love of the water.
This place gave him the creeps.
Dead leaves rustled on the branches. The breeze, which held the serrated edge of the Arctic, made his eyes smart. He removed his Glock from the holster and circled around to the back of the property, shoes immediately soaked by two inches of snow that had fallen in the past few hours.
Maybe that was what bothered him. No footprints in the fresh snow. And no vehicle in sight. No lights on inside the house, and no smoke coming out of the chimney.
Didn’t have to mean anything. Sylvie and her husband may have decided to go away after all. Frazer hoped so. But the hairs on his nape quivered, and he had long ago learned to listen to his instincts.
He shone his flashlight around the house but saw no sign of anyone being here.
He decided to try the back door. He knocked first and called out, “Sylvie? It’s Lincoln Frazer. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
He tried her cell again, and a stab of something bleak moved through him when he heard the ring tone coming from inside the house.
He called out again then dialed Aaron Nash who was currently closer than Novak or the HRT team who guarded the judge. Parker would have been useful right about now, but he was busy helping one of his best friends prepare for her wedding to SSA Quentin Savage.
“You find her?” Nash answered.
“I’m at her house, but the lights are off. No one appears to be home, but I can hear her cell ringing inside.”
“Give me the address,” Aaron instructed. “I’ll call the local office.”
Frazer sent him his location. “I’m going in.”
“Leech could be there.”
“That would be lovely.” Frazer wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate the guy, not when he’d murdered so many and had so little left to lose, but Frazer was a well-trained professional and catching serial killers was his job. “I’ll keep the line open, but backup might prove useful.”
“Already being requested.”
Frazer smiled a little. He liked that about the Hostage Rescue Team. They didn’t need point-by-point instruction or hand holding.
He slid the phone into his pocket and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves so as not to disturb evidence should a crime have been committed here. Assume the worst—that was his mantra. He tried the doorknob, but it was locked. He used the butt of his weapon to break the glass in the small pane closest to the lock. Pretty crappy security, but this door only opened into a mudroom. He reached through, flicked the lock and walked inside.
His shoes crunched on the broken shards of glass. Was Leech here? Was Sylvie alive?
He hoped she wasn’t standing behind the door ready to put a bullet in him because she heard someone break into her house.
He pulled his flashlight from his pocket and called out again. “Sylvie. It’s me, Frazer.”
No reaction. No sense of predatory anticipation either.
Frazer tried the door into the main house and was disappointed to find it unlocked. Sylvie was smarter than that.
He braced his Glock on the wrist that held the flashlight and entered the main house, moving quickly away from the danger zone as he swept his light across the kitchen.
Signs of someone about to eat dinner—bowls on the table, bread and butter on the counter. An empty packet of ham. Milk and cheese left out of the fridge on the side. He touched a finger to the saucepan of stew on the stove.
Stone cold.
Frazer flicked on the light switch, glad when it came on. The fewer shadows for danger to lurk in the better. The smell of overripe bananas soured his stomach, but he pushed the sensation away, along with the memories of another woman’s kitchen.
“Sylvie? It’s Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lincoln Frazer. We had a meeting?” If Leech was here, he already knew Frazer was in the house. But if the husband was here then hopefully, he’d be less inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.
Best to clear the house and pray his instincts were off.
He stepped into the dining room and then into the living room. Nothing.
An office was on the other side of the staircase and a glance inside showed it had been ransacked. A computer was on. The screensaver active.
Ice formed inside his veins. He knew exactly what he was going to find upstairs now. He turned on lights along the way, led with his gun. He saw the soles of their feet first through the banisters.
A man and a woman lay on the floor, side by side.
Frazer had to clear the whole house before he could check them for signs of life, but that initial glance told him they’d been dead for a while. He cleared the bathroom and the other bedrooms. Methodical. Thorough. He wasn’t about to let Leech leap out on him with a gun or a knife and leave Izzy as grief-stricken as Hope.
He was mindful of the fact it was a crime scene and avoided getting too close to either Sylvie or her burly ex-Marine husband. He avoided the blood spatter on the carpet and only touched what he had to, no handles where possible, using his gun to turn on the lights.
Scrawled in bright red, presumably lipstick, across the bathroom mirror was “I have feelings, Dr. P.”
Leech.
Cowardly bastard.
Frazer pushed the victims out of his mind and did the job, cleared everywhere except the tiny attic and crawlspace—he’d let junior agents deal with those. His instincts and senses, plus the lack of tracks in the snow told him Leech was long gone.
He lowered his weapon and put the flashlight back in his pocket. He pulled out his cell. The call was still connected.
“Two dead on scene. Sylvie and a man I have to assume is her husband judging from the tattoos. I cleared most of the house. No one else is here. I’ll need a full team of agents from the local field office. I’ll inform the marshals, but this will be our crime scene.”
“You’re sure it’s Leech?”
“I’m sure.” Frazer took a few photos from different angles, the last one focusing on the hands. He went into the bathroom and snapped the image of the lipstick on the mirror. He sent two images to Nash, knowing he’d understand the significance of the pose.
“So, Leech or a copycat,” Aaron said quietly.
“Yes.” The word tasted like acid on his tongue. “Someone shot the Marine though. That’s new.”
“What if the marshals decide they don’t want us investigating the murders?”
“Then I’ll use all my influence to persuade them otherwise. In the meantime, let’s just say I’ll wait ten minutes or so before I make that call to them. I’ll check the garage and outbuildings first, like a pro.”
“Watch your back…” There was a hesitation. “Should I call you Frazer or sir or something else?”
Frazer scoffed. “I think we can dispense with the formalities. I have a feeling we’re going to be spending a lot more time together over the next few days.”
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah. Absolute total shit.”
“Should I tell Hope?” asked Aaron.
Frazer considered for a moment. He wanted to say no, but then she would lose faith in them, and he needed her trust. Plus, if anyone could handle the truth it was Hope. She’d withstood worse.
“Tell her but delay it for as long as you can. And then sit on her if you have to, to stop her coming out here. Do me another favor and call Novak and the team guarding the judge. I seriously doubt Leech will risk going after anyone who has bodyguards, but let’s get the word out.”
“I’m surprised he went after a Marine.”
“Me too.” And Frazer didn’t like surprises. “I’ll come to the house as soon as I finish here.”
“Roger that.”
They hung up.
Frazer took a video of the scene and then walked back through the house, recording the whole time. In what was presumably Sylvie’s home office, he nudged the computer mouse with his gun. A news website loaded on the screen, a photograph of Hope as she stood outside the DA’s office, eyes blazing.
Headline read, “Heavily guarded ADA Hope Harper claims to be unafraid of escaped serial killer, Julius Leech.”
Frazer sighed. Well, she’d certainly gotten the man’s attention. Not that it had ever been in doubt.
He headed through the living room where everything appeared undisturbed. Had Leech caught one of them in the kitchen, Frazer wondered. Probably last night judging from the congealed state of the stew and stale hunk of torn-off loaf.
Probably pulled his gun on them…
Didn’t feel quite right.
The Marine had been naked.
Frazer pictured it in his mind. Maybe the Marine gets home from work, Sylvie has dinner ready while he cleans up? Leech sneaks in the back door and catches Sylvie in the kitchen. Holds a gun to her head as he forces her upstairs. Shoots the Marine in the bedroom.
Yeah, that sounded more like a Leech scenario. Still cowardly.
Had they not taken the threat seriously? Maybe not. The house was in her husband’s name. And she took great care with her online security, assuming that would prevent the people she helped convict from finding out where she lived. But Leech had billions of dollars and nothing better to spend it on. Frazer bet the guy and his personal assistant, or whatever the hell Blake Delaware was, had compiled a full history on everyone involved in Leech’s conviction.
Frazer texted Izzy to reassure himself that she was okay and to warn her and her sister Kit to take extra care. He wasn’t too worried, but it never hurt to be cautious. And while Leech might have money, Frazer had something better. Alex Parker. The cybersecurity expert had helped him disappear when it came to where he lived or might be at any given time. Any links to Izzy and Kit had also been carefully erased as had their online data where possible. Kit was a college freshman, so it wasn’t perfect, but the young woman liked to avoid the spotlight where possible nowadays.
Frazer headed outside to check the shed and the garage, removing keys off the hook inside the kitchen. He tromped through the snow knowing more was forecast and that was going to complicate processing this crime scene—it already had—but he didn’t find anything of note, just a couple of empty vehicles.
Had Leech taken one? If not, what was he driving? Was he alone? Where had he parked?
Frazer finally made the call to the marshals, knowing that despite the fact he’d gotten a lead on Leech—while they’d argue against that being a definite—the USMS wasn’t going to be happy with him.
Not his problem.
But Leech was his problem. Leech was very much his problem.
One he intended to solve.
21
Hope grabbed a large casserole that she’d ordered in frozen from her favorite French restaurant over the holidays but had never gotten around to eating. She defrosted it in the microwave for ten minutes before covering it with tin foil and placing it in the oven on a low heat. It was way too much for one person but would get her through the rest of the week, and probably Saturday, saving her the effort of cooking until she had to dust off her skills for the Sunday roast.
While dinner slowly warmed, she sat at the large dining room table which was only ever used by her but filled the space nicely. She opened her email which she hadn’t even looked at yet today. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue, but she wanted to stay up as long as she could. Otherwise, she’d be awake in the middle of the night. And, for once, she’d dearly love to sleep eight solid hours.
She deleted hate mail without bothering to read it. She didn’t allow that kind of negative energy into her life. She had enough of her own. She did the same with requests for comment from reporters, though yesterday’s soundbites had given them enough fodder to leave her alone for a few days.
She slumped with her elbow on the table, resting her head on her hand. Was that why someone had poured blood over Danny and Paige’s gravestone? Because of her big mouth? Was it, once again, her fault?
Probably.
Leech had very much started this war, and, while she’d eventually won with him being incarcerated, the battles she’d lost along the way hadn’t made it worth it. Especially now that the man was once again free to terrorize.
She pushed thoughts of him aside. She had work to do.
The jury selection was going in the prosecution’s favor so far, although there were a couple of potentials who didn’t have a lot of online history, and that worried her a little. She called Ella to check that she was okay, but the woman didn’t pick up. Hope followed up with a quick text saying today had gone well but they were still in the process of jury selection and not to come in unless she really wanted to.
Ella worked at a fast-food joint where the pay was as terrible as the coffee, but they were allowing her the time off she needed for the trial. The fact Hope had gone to visit the manager to help realign his sympathies and moral code was their little secret.
At 6:30 p.m. a reminder dinged on her cell phone to tell her to go water her neighbors’ plants.
Shoot.
Larry and Enrique had given her a detailed demonstration on each of their plants, which they treated like children. Keeping her promises to them was the least she could do.
She checked the casserole, but it was still cold and would take at least another half hour to heat through. She increased the heat a little and headed downstairs.
Seth Hopper stood outside her door. They’d both had a long day, she realized with another pang of guilt. Hopper had unusual hazel eyes that held a patient kindness she appreciated. A pair of sexier, darker eyes flashed into her mind, and she blinked in surprise.
It was shocking to think of Aaron Nash, or any man, that way.
“Ma’am?” Hopper straightened away from the wall, his face a picture of concern.
She held up her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m going to the apartment downstairs to water the plants.”
Seth glanced behind her as if searching for a hidden adversary. Then gave her a nod and followed close behind her until she reached the ground floor.
“I think I’ll be safe enough from here. I’m only going into the apartment, which I believe is full of your teammates.”
“Then I’m definitely going to be your backup.”
She laughed as he’d intended.
Ryan Sullivan stood near the front door and gave them both a grin. “Pizza arrived if you want some. You better knock first unless you want to catch anyone naked though.”
He sent her a wicked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She had a read on him now. He used his glib humor as a deflection mechanism the way she used her prickly armor. She wasn’t sure which was more effective, but people probably liked him better.
She knocked as instructed then opened the door that led into Larry and Enrique’s almost unrecognizable living room. She stopped dead. Aaron Nash was stripping off the shirt he’d worn in court today. He was all lean, ropey muscle and broad shoulders, and had the most mouth-watering spine she’d ever seen. A small school of fish swam their way across his right shoulder blade and down.
He turned around and caught her gaping at him like a guppy.
Hope didn’t remember the last time she’d felt that telltale quiver in response to a handsome man. There’d only ever been Danny.
“I, ah, sorry. I did knock.”
“Not a problem. What can I do for you?” He pulled a black T-shirt over his head and made all that tantalizing flesh disappear.
“Hope?” His tone shifted to concern. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“No. No. Not that I know of.” She blinked out of her trance. “I need to water the plants.”
“We can do that.” He attached his weapon to his belt but didn’t put on the ballistic vest that was draped across the cot set up in front of the marble fireplace.
Cot…
“No.” She frowned. “I need to do it. Larry and Enrique gave me an hour’s worth of instruction, and I promised I’d take care of them. Even though my horticultural prowess is usually limited to washing lettuce.”
