Читать книгу Dying To Play - Debra Webb - Страница 15

Trace stood outside the Atlanta Commerce Bank for a long while after Elaine Jentzen went inside. He was in no hurry to go inside. He’d already seen all there was to see. There would be no inadvertently left evidence, no conclusions to be drawn from the scene staging. Nothing. And that was the only clue Trace needed.

A cool breeze shifted the wide leaves of the massive magnolia trees shading the nearly empty parking lot. He studied the details of the large brick structure with its bold, white-column sentries guarding the double entry doors. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he huddled against the sudden chill that danced up his spine.

Why had he chosen this particular bank? Was it because Matthews used this one? Or was it the bank’s president that had made this institution the target? Trace knew little about the case so far, but he had enough information to recognize the familiarity of the game.

Dread pooled in his gut.

If last week’s beauty-shop murders had left any question, today’s bloodshed had cleared up the doubt. As far as Trace was concerned, anyway. He’d managed to convince his superiors at the Bureau, barely. He recognized that even the remote possibility of a repeat of two years ago had done more of the persuading than anything he had said or done. And Supervisory Special Agent Douglas appeared to be on his side…not that his support was much of a consolation. The bottom line was simple. No one wanted to take the risk.

The caption above the entrance to the bank snagged his attention, drawing him several steps closer. In God We Trust. He wondered briefly how many other Atlanta banks featured that logo. It would please the scumbag responsible for these senseless murders to no end to make a mockery of the people’s trust.

That was part of the thrill for the Gamekeeper.

He preyed upon those supremely confident in their ability to recognize the difference between right and wrong. No one saw the danger coming…until it was too late. He toyed with his chosen victims, manipulated them in every possible way. Then, when he tired of their frantic struggles, he used them to act out his evil schemes.

Worry creased Trace’s brow as he stood beneath the shaded portico of the bank entrance. There was one major difference, however, in these two cases and the ones from two years ago. The Gamekeeper, without exception, made the final kill himself. It was part of his signature—part of the ritual he followed religiously. But with both the beauty-shop case and the current one, the supposed perps had offed themselves. That had been the major sticking point with the brass. The profiler had been reluctant to agree with Trace when he suggested that the Gamekeeper could be behind last week’s murders. He would say the same about this one.

Serial killers rarely changed their MOs…unless some life-altering event predicated the change. He knew that better than anyone. But it didn’t sway his thinking.

Memories of the night his partner died abruptly slammed into him with the power of a train exploding from a dark tunnel.

Molly had been as green as they came. Brand-new to the Bureau. That alone had made her the perfect candidate for the trap Trace had devised. He’d asked for her, insisted on having her. She would play the part of his new girlfriend, his lover. And she would be the bait for the Gamekeeper. He would be the one to actually get close enough to make the collar. Molly had loved it. Thanked him over and over for allowing her the opportunity to work with a legend.

A legend. Yeah, right.

He swallowed hard, emotion making the action nearly impossible. He’d had such a hard-on to solve the case…to be the one who brought the Gamekeeper down, he hadn’t fully considered the risk to her. But he hadn’t worried because he’d been in control….

Or so he’d thought.

They’d played a twisted little game back and forth, he and the Gamekeeper. At the time, Trace could almost taste the triumph. He was so very close. He was going to nail him.

So many dead. All young with great futures ahead of them. Those were the ones the Gamekeeper liked best. No junkies, hookers or homeless people for him. He liked the challenge of more worthy opponents.

What was the fun, he’d said in one of his taunting calls to Trace, in stalking and murdering an already helpless creature?

He wanted to play.

To draw out the pleasure.

Sick bastard.

Trace clenched his jaw. He should have seen it coming. He should have known the Gamekeeper was too smart to fall for such an ordinary sting. The scumbag had known that Molly was Trace’s partner, not his girlfriend. But he’d also known that they’d grown close during the course of the investigation. He’d watched them, studied them. And the bastard had wielded every bit as much hurt…as much pain in the end.

She was dead. It was Trace’s fault. Nothing he could do would bring her back.

She’d died in his arms. He’d tried to stop the bleeding…tried to keep her alive until help arrived, but it had been useless.

He’d made a fatal mistake.

Trace jerked back to the here and now. He was shaking. A sheen of perspiration slicked his skin. His stomach roiled with the bitter dregs of his own guilt…of the vengeance he’d waited so long to wreak. He needed it more than his next breath. He wanted the Gamekeeper dead.

He’d managed to get off one good shot that night. He’d hit him, Trace knew he had. But he hadn’t killed him. The Gamekeeper was still alive. Trace felt him. The fact that the sick piece of crap had apparently dropped off the face of the earth for the past two years had lent credence to the possibility that Trace had managed a fatal hit that night. But he knew differently. Every fiber of his being sensed the evil lurking close by.

Whatever the Gamekeeper’s reasons for lying low until now didn’t matter. He was back, and Trace intended to stop him this time. He intended to kill him. He wanted to personally help perform the no-holds-barred autopsy on the son of a bitch. To hold the saw that cut into that twisted brain.

Trace fought to stem the tremors quaking through him. He dragged in a breath, ragged with his efforts to regain control. He had to keep it together.

This was his second chance. Second chances didn’t come along often. He would do it right this time.

“You coming in or what?”

Trace looked up to find Detective Jentzen glaring at him from the bank’s entrance. He jerked, startled.

Her eyes narrowed as she quickly took in his pathetic state. He squared his shoulders and blinked away the last of the lingering images that haunted him day and night. He could do this.

“Yeah.” He started forward, each step a conscious effort to remain steady. “I’m coming in.”

Not bothering to hide her annoyance, Jentzen held the door until he reached it, then gave him her back and strode across the lobby.

Trace moistened his lips and exhaled a relieved breath. He couldn’t let that happen again. If she suspected for one second that he was experiencing difficulty staying in control, she would certainly insist that he be removed from the case.

Not that he could blame her. In this line of work, who wanted to partner up with a guy who couldn’t watch his partner’s back? The Bureau had stuck him on desk duty. This was his one shot at making things right. His new partner resented the hell out of him, but he could live with it. She certainly hadn’t been his first choice, either. Though by all accounts she was a damned good cop, she was a woman, and he wasn’t sure he could trust her to react like a cop when the chips were down.

He couldn’t make a mistake and he couldn’t allow her to make one. This was his opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. To bring down the Gamekeeper and to get his professional life back. He didn’t really care that he no longer garnered any respect from the other agents. And he sure as hell didn’t need any friends. It was the job that kept him going…that he needed. If he had to go back to that desk for the rest of his days…well, he just wasn’t sure he could handle it.

Sure, he hated the way everyone looked at him now. As if they feared he’d go berserk at any given moment. But more than that or even the ever-present talk behind his back, he hated the looks of sympathy.

The panic he struggled with on a daily basis abruptly surged into his throat.

He choked it back.

This time would be different.

He would do everything right this time.

“Callahan, this is Detective Henshaw.” Jentzen stood next to an older man, fifty, fifty-five maybe. He looked a little rumpled and a lot cop smart. The cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth gave him a sort of Columbo-without-the-trench-coat look.

Trace extended his hand automatically. “Trace Callahan,” he said, not missing the older man’s methodical scrutiny.

Henshaw pumped his hand a couple of times and grunted. “I’ve heard of your reputation.”

Trace forced a smile. He’d just bet the old man had heard of him, but he doubted it was anything good. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” he suggested in as good-natured a tone as he could manage.

Henshaw chuckled, but those cunning eyes told the tale. He knew a lot more than he would dream of saying. “I’ll bear that in mind, Callahan.”

Trace looked from Henshaw to his reluctant partner and back. “I suppose Jentzen told you about the working arrangements?”

Henshaw nodded. “I can live with it. Temporarily.” He looked at the woman at his side. “I’ll have my final report ready by the end of the day.”

“Just leave it on my desk. I’m not sure when I’ll—we’ll get back to the office.”

“Will do.”

Jentzen’s cellular phone rang, and she stepped away to take the call. Henshaw gave Trace a final curt nod before walking past him. Trace reciprocated, damned tired of the pretending and the double-talk, but he had to play it out a little longer.

Until he set things right again.

“Just one more thing,” Henshaw said, as if he’d almost forgotten some important aspect of the case he needed to pass along.

Trace turned to face him. “What’s that?” Their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills.

“Don’t let anything happen to my partner,” the old man warned. “You risk her life unnecessarily and you’ll answer to me. You got that, hotshot?”

Trace read no malice in the man’s tone or expression…just genuine fear for his partner’s well-being. The warning wasn’t anything he hadn’t anticipated. “I’ve got it.”

“Good.”

Detective Henshaw pivoted on his heel and exited the bank. He paused outside the door to light his cigar. A puff of blue smoke rose above his head. Trace looked away, suppressing the urge to reach into his own pocket for a cigarette. He’d quit smoking ten years ago. Then, when everything had gone to hell, he’d picked them up again. Last month, he’d finally worked up the nerve to quit for good. He hated being at the mercy of the habit…almost as much as his new partner obviously hated the idea of being partnered up with someone who polluted her air space. She seemed to make an exception with Henshaw. Or maybe she had him trained not to light up in her presence.

His gaze sought and found Elaine Jentzen. She was no green, right-out-of-the-academy rookie like Molly had been. She was street savvy and smart, but more than that she was experienced. Despite her youth, she’d worked long and hard to get where she was. A degree in criminology with a minor in psychology and graduating top of her class from the police academy were pretty impressive feats to have accomplished by age twenty-two. Her very first case in Homicide had made a hero of her. She’d been flying high ever since. Not to mention making deputy chief before hitting thirty. He imagined she’d made a few enemies along the way as well. No one moved up the ranks that quickly without pissing off somebody.

According to what he’d pulled up on the computer about her, she was a third-generation cop. All three of her brothers were either policemen or firemen. Her sister was the only exception in the bunch. She’d chosen education for her field of expertise, then married during her first year of teaching. Five years and four children later, she was a stay-at-home mom with a college professor husband.

Trace didn’t have any siblings. His parents had died long ago. It was just him. That hadn’t really ever bothered him before. But now, somehow, it did.

Considering Jentzen’s brood, it made him feel lonely. He almost laughed at that one. He was alone.

And that’s the way he liked it.

Self-pity wasn’t his style.

Nor was being dependent upon another human being.

He surveyed his new partner’s long legs, then all that dark hair that fell past her proud shoulders. She was tall, five foot seven inches or eight maybe. Thin, but more lean than skinny he’d bet. The black slacks weren’t formfitting, but were well tailored to the sweet contours of her body. She wore her badge and weapon at her waist in a no-frills fashion. The white blouse was something soft and flowing. It nestled against her skin in all the right places. His gaze lingered a little too long on her breasts. He blinked and forced his attention up to her face.

But her brown eyes were her best asset, in his opinion. Her every emotion shimmered in those wide, oval pools. She emanated more strength and courage than most women in his experience. The fact that she’d already earned his respect to an extent surprised him. He was usually slow in allowing that kind of confidence.

As she argued with someone named Flatt on her cell phone, Trace watched her every move. She used her hands a lot. Long, delicate fingers were tipped by short nails. Her face was as animated as her hands. And what a pretty face it was. Too pretty for a cop, especially one so ambitious.

She did this thing with her hand…just a quick motion of running her fingers through her hair. He liked that. He liked her. She was a good cop. A real cop, he thought, his lips slanting up into an unexpected grin.

Nope, self-pity wasn’t his style.

But then neither was lusting after the forbidden.

He couldn’t make a mistake this time.

He wouldn’t make a mistake.

Elaine Jentzen was a complication he didn’t need or want. But he would make the best of the situation…if that was possible.

“Earth to Callahan.”

Jentzen’s voice startled Trace back to attention. “Yeah?” Damn. He’d zoned out again.

She gave him one of those barely tolerant looks teachers saved for their most trying students. “If you’re ready now, I’d like to get this show on the road. We have to make a statement to the press.”

Well, at least now he had his answer to making the best of things.

It was going to be impossible.