Читать книгу SWAT Secret Admirer - Elizabeth Heiter - Страница 11

Chapter Three

“Why now?” Maggie asked as she walked into her living room. “And how long have you been up?” she added, noticing the pillows and blankets she’d put on the couch for Scott looked untouched. The guest room bed she’d made up for Ella was probably still made, too.

She glanced at her watch—10:00 a.m. Which meant she’d been in bed for about four hours. Not that she’d slept much. She’d spent most of the time trying every combat nap technique she’d learned from Scott, who’d trained with military special operations teams for his HRT sniper position. Still, every time she’d drifted off to sleep, she’d startled awake almost immediately.

Despite having gotten out of bed at five in the morning when she’d called them over, Ella and Scott looked wide-awake.

Ella handed her a cup of coffee. “We stayed up.”

“What did I miss?” Maggie asked, looking back and forth between them. But neither of them needed to answer. She could tell from their faces. “You talked about how you were going to protect me, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scott said. “We both know you can take care of yourself.”

“Thank—”

“But that doesn’t mean we’re leaving you alone,” he cut her off, putting a hand on her arm. “Get ready for some houseguests. Or pack a bag. And don’t even think about arguing.”

Maggie was both annoyed and relieved. If it was one of them in trouble, she’d be doing the same thing. They were a team; they always had been.

“Okay. But I want to stay here.” They could take turns staying with her—she knew there was no stopping them—but she didn’t want to bring trouble to their doorsteps.

Especially since neither one lived alone. Ella’s fiancé, Logan, was a cop, and Scott’s girlfriend, Chelsie—who’d moved in with him a week ago—was FBI. But neither of them had signed up for this, and although Maggie knew they’d help if she asked, she didn’t want to drag them into it, too.

Scott looked surprised at her easy agreement, but he changed the subject, probably worried she’d change her mind. “Maggie, you haven’t told Mom and Dad about the letters, have you? Or Nikki?”

“No.” She took a sip of coffee, and the hot liquid burned the back of her throat, clearing her head. “And I don’t plan to now, either. What are they going to do from Indiana, besides worry?”

She got ready to fight Scott on it—her parents had worried enough about her, ten years ago. She didn’t want them repeating it now. And Nikki had only been twelve then, so they’d tried to keep the details from her. Nikki knew now—since the Fishhook Rapist had never been caught, she’d read about him in the news over the years. But Maggie didn’t want her little sister to worry, especially not while Nikki was just moving into her first apartment, starting her first job.

“I agree,” Scott said, surprising her.

“You do?”

“Yes. We both know Mom and Dad will just call you constantly, insisting you come home. And you don’t need the distraction. We need to focus on stopping him. I want this September 1 to be just another day.”

So did she. Getting together with Ella and Scott once a year, praying a new victim wouldn’t turn up, was a tradition she’d love to forsake. But September 1 was never going to be just another day for her.

“Good,” she said. “Then let’s get started.”

“You don’t have access to the case file, do you?” Ella asked.

Maggie snorted. “No.” She knew more details than the average victim, because the task force had asked her questions over the years. But they’d never let her officially investigate. She suppressed a shudder at just the idea. Even if it could help, the thought of looking through all the other victim files—and her own—made the coffee churn in her stomach.

“It probably wouldn’t tell us a lot more than we already know, anyway.”

She didn’t have to say why. The news gave them enough details about where the Fishhook Rapist had been, and it was no secret he’d stuck to a pattern. Victimology and the crime itself hadn’t changed.

He always struck once a year, on the same date. And he always chose the same type of woman: someone in her late teens or early twenties, with a slender build and long, dark hair.

Maggie touched the hair she’d cut into a bob years ago, after the second Fishhook Rapist victim had surfaced, looking too much like her. She’d worked hard on her physique, too. No longer was she thin and willowy, but lean and muscular.

She turned her back on Scott and Ella, in the pretense of heading for the chair in the corner, but really to give herself a second without being scrutinized to get her game face on. The face she used when she went into a SWAT call and needed a perp who weighed more than twice as much as she did to recognize her as a viable threat. She could do this. She could talk about what had happened to her, with the two people closest to her in the world.

Her bruised back protested as she sat. When she raised her eyes to theirs, she could tell Ella and Scott weren’t fooled. In some ways, this would be easier with total strangers.

Clutching the arms of her chair too hard, she asked Ella, “Why now? Why isn’t this year the same as every other one? Do you think he plans to target a new victim, too? Or just come back for me? And what—” She choked on the rest of the sentence, but she could tell Ella knew what she was going to ask.

What did he plan to do to her this time?

Ella settled onto the couch across from her, her face scrunched up, and Maggie knew what was coming. A detailed profiler’s analysis.

Ella looked pensive as she started, “It was a sophisticated crime. He didn’t leave us any forensic evidence, not even the first time. He was probably in his late twenties a decade ago. Young enough to fit in around a college town, but old enough to be self-sufficient, with his own vehicle and the ability to leave town permanently afterward without attracting attention.”

Scott was nodding from his perch next to the couch as Ella continued, “He’s closing in on forty now, and he’s still grabbing women in college or just out of it. It’s not as easy for him to blend in anymore. He’s starting to realize he needs to think about changing his approach. He’s starting to realize his pattern for the past decade has to change, at least in some ways. It’s made him reminisce. And ten years is a significant number, in terms of standard anniversaries.”

Intense lines appeared on Ella’s smooth olive skin, and even her tone changed as she got into what Maggie recognized as her profiler groove. “To this perp, September 1 is more important than any standard anniversary. He’s not married, never has been, and for him, this crime dominates his life.”

She looked apologetic as she continued, “You’re important to him because that day was the start for him. It probably wasn’t his first offense, but it was the first time he used the brand.” Her voice caught as she said, “And that’s his signature. As he’s been planning his next attack, he can’t stop thinking about how it all started. He’s looking for that same thrill, the way it was the first time he decided to act—the fear and excitement and—”

Ella closed her eyes again, and Maggie realized this was as hard for Ella to profile as it was for Maggie to hear. Ella had been there that day, when Maggie had stumbled back to their dorm room, drugged and only able to remember fragments of what had happened. Fragments were all she had today, and in some ways, she was grateful for that.

Scott was standing beside the couch, his jaw locked, his nostrils practically flaring, as he listened silently.

Maggie got up and walked woodenly to the couch, sitting beside Ella, who’d befriended her and Scott when she’d moved down the street from them when she and Maggie were in kindergarten. “It’s okay. Keep going.”

Maggie could hear determination, sorrow and anger in Ella’s voice as she said, “It’s hard for me to profile him objectively, Maggie. But I don’t think he’s planning to go after a new victim this year. I think he means what he says in that letter. I think he’s coming back here just for you, to re-create what’s in his mind from a decade ago.”

* * *

“THE DATE OF the attacks has to mean something,” Grant announced Monday morning.

He’d been saying it for two days now, and he was certain he was right. The problem was, he didn’t know what it meant.

“Maybe.” Kammy Ming, the SSA of the VCMO squad where Grant was on loan, still looked skeptical.

They were the only ones in the room now, but in an hour, it would fill up with the rest of the case agents. Kammy was already here because, as far as he could tell, she didn’t sleep. He was here extra early because he needed to figure this out, for Maggie.

“Or maybe it’s just the day he went after what he wanted,” Kammy said. “Maybe it’s important because it’s the date of the attacks. Because it’s when he abducted Maggie, so then it became his day for every future attack.”

“Yeah, I know that’s the prevailing theory,” Grant said, rolling his shoulders, which were tight from spending the weekend sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a WFO conference room. “But you wanted me here because of my experience with the Manhattan Strangler case, right?”

Kammy nodded, but she was frowning, looking exhausted after a weekend without much progress. “There are some compelling similarities we can’t ignore. But this isn’t the same guy...”

“No,” Grant agreed. “But in that case, the killer specifically waited for the anniversary of his mother’s death to make a kill. Four years, and he was in control enough to wait a whole year in between attacks. With someone who has this sort of compulsion, a year is a long wait.”

“Keep talking,” Kammy said, tying her graying hair up in a bun as she stared expectantly at him.

She was as much of a workaholic as James. Was that going to be him in ten years? No balance, just the job all the time?

An image of Maggie immediately filled his brain. There was a heck of a lot more than work that he wanted to fill his days. And there was a heck of a lot more than just work involved when it came to solving this case.

“It’s the same with this guy,” Grant pressed. “He’s systematic with the abductions, the branding, every single year. But he can control the urge until September 1 comes along. There must be a reason.”

Kammy raised her eyebrows, sinking back into the chair next to him. “You have any ideas why the Fishhook Rapist would choose that specific day every year?” Before he could answer, she added, “Why did the Manhattan Strangler wait for the anniversary of his mother’s death every year?”

“He was textbook. Overbearing mother he hated. He’d threatened to kill her for years, but could never bring himself to do it. After she died in a car accident, he treated the new victims as surrogates. So he waited for her anniversary for each kill.”

Kammy nodded thoughtfully. “Trying to kill his mother over and over again, in the form of women who resembled her.”

“Exactly. And the Fishhook Rapist chooses victims with a definite look, so it’s possible he’s modeling them after someone, too, but it could just be that he has a type. And given the rape, I think his motivation is different.”

“Such as?”

It was 6:00 a.m. Monday morning, and they’d been going over the evidence practically nonstop since he’d been called in early Saturday. He was exhausted. But he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep even if he wanted to. Every time he closed his eyes, he thought of the case. He thought of Maggie’s case file.

He thought of Maggie, the way he knew her now. Light blue eyes bright with intelligence and determination, dark brown hair framing her heart-shaped face, lean body outlined with muscle, primed to rush into a SWAT call. And he thought of her the way he’d seen her in the photographs from her case file, taken at the hospital shortly after her attack. Smaller and much younger, hunched into herself, battered and broken. He never wanted to see her like that again.

Straightening, he shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we should talk to a profiler—”

Kammy cut him off. “This case has been to the BAU. One of their senior people profiled him for us a few years ago.”

“Okay, so what’d they say about the date of the attacks?”

“He said there wasn’t enough evidence to be sure either way.”

“But if we could figure out what it was, maybe it would help us track him.”

Kammy nodded. “Well, you have any ideas, then go for it. In the meantime, let’s work with what we know. Why’s he coming back for Maggie?”

“Because he couldn’t claim her,” Grant replied immediately. To him, that one was obvious.

It had been the same with the Manhattan Strangler. He’d come back for the one woman who’d escaped him, the one woman he’d tried to kill who had managed to survive, against all the doctors’ predictions.

Kammy’s eyebrows drew together. “He did claim her. He raped and branded her like the rest—”

“Yeah, but look at her now.” Grant cut Kammy off, not wanting or needing the reminder of what Maggie had endured. “She’s SWAT. She didn’t let him break her. And she was the first one he went after, the one with the most meaning to him.”

“You think he knew her personally?”

“Probably not, but I think he watched her from afar for a while. I think there’s a good chance he had a legitimate reason to be at the college back then.”

“You mean a student?” Kammy shook her head. “The profiler was pretty solid on the guy being older than his victims.”

“Maybe he worked there.”

“Okay,” Kammy said, “We can double-check. But they definitely looked closely at college employees back then. And I’m pretty sure we checked into anyone who moved after that attack, because we know he must have left between then and the following year, when he showed up in Mississippi. But let’s go back to what you said about Maggie being different from the others.”

Grant spun his chair back toward the conference table and took out eight of the nine victim files, handing them to Kammy. “The other victims. Look at their updates, the follow-ups. Look at where they are now. Every single one of them was derailed by the attack in some way. Either they dropped out of school, so they didn’t end up in their planned profession, or they developed other problems like drinking or substance abuse.”

Kammy started opening the files. “Okay, you’re right about some of them. Two dropped out of school and never went back, which—you’re right—seriously impacted their futures. One has a drinking problem and another one has had substance abuse issues, but she’s clean now. Still, what about Marjorie? She—”

“Was on suicide watch on and off for two years after her attack.”

“Danielle—”

“Dropped out of school, too.”

“She’s a doctor now,” Kammy argued.

“She eventually went back to school. But it set her back about four years. And she’s been vocal about her experience since then, including her struggle with panic attacks to this day.”

Kammy stared at him. “This isn’t all in the files.”

“I did some digging. I know Maggie was his first victim, and ten years is an anniversary. But I think it’s more than that. Maggie didn’t just survive. She went into one of the most physical jobs in the FBI. Looking at her now, you’d never think she endured that. I think he’s developed a sick obsession with her, with the idea of her and how he tried to leave a mark on her—psychologically, that is—and ultimately failed. I think he’s coming back for her because he wants to break her.”

Kammy snorted. “I know Maggie Delacorte, too, Grant. She’s one of the toughest agents here. If he couldn’t break her when she was twenty-two, how’s he going to do it now, when she’s SWAT?”

Grant shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know.” Which worried him a lot. Because the Fishhook Rapist was extremely intelligent. He had to be, to evade them for this many years, with this much Bureau heat on him. So he would have a plan in place.

Yet, he’d advertised that he was going to return for Maggie. He’d never returned for any of his victims. So they would never have expected it if he hadn’t told them. Why would he do that? Unless it was part of his effort to break Maggie down.

“Well, whatever his plan is, we need to get to him before he gets near her. I don’t care if she can take him down with her bare hands, I don’t like this,” Kammy said. “I don’t like anything about this.”

“Neither do I.”

“We’ve got twenty-seven days,” Kammy said. “And so far, zero leads.”

“Then we’d better get cracking,” Grant said, standing. “I’ll get the number for the DC cops who handled the original case.”

“Just remember,” Kammy called after him, “You run into Maggie, and you say nothing.”

“Not a problem,” Grant said. He hoped she wouldn’t discover that he was working the case until it was over. Until they’d put the Fishhook Rapist behind bars for good.

* * *

PEOPLE WERE STARING.

Maggie felt uncomfortable as she walked down the drab gray hallway toward the bustling bullpen where she worked at the WFO. Other agents avoided her eyes as she approached, but she could see them watching from her peripheral vision. As if they all knew.

The case agents for the Fishhook Rapist investigation worked out of the WFO, and it had been that way for a long time, so inevitably some rumors had gotten out. But never like this.

She jumped as someone clapped a hand on her shoulder, then spun around to face the office newbie, a tall, reed-thin guy a few months out of the Academy. Still all nervous excitement and no experience. Still too green to know when to keep his mouth shut.

He gave her an uncomfortable smile and said, “I can’t believe the jerk is writing you letters. But they’ll catch him. Don’t worry.”

Mind your own business formed on her lips, but she held it in and nodded stiffly back. Until now, only the longtime agents had seemed to know anything about what had led her into the FBI, and by the time they found out, they knew her well enough not to judge her for it. Six years at the WFO, and she’d never felt as though there was an invisible cloud of pity around her no one wanted to enter. It was why she’d almost backed out when the FBI had assigned her here in the first place.

Frustration and dismay filled her, and she gritted her teeth and tried to bury those emotions under anger. After ten years, the Fishhook Rapist shouldn’t have this kind of power over her life anymore.

She wasn’t going to let him have this kind of power over her life anymore.

She straightened her shoulders, and the newbie must have seen something in her eyes, because he stammered nervously about getting to work and hurried off.

“Maggie.”

She turned at the sound of the familiar voice, and found Clive standing behind her, a grim expression on his normally friendly face.

“You know,” she said, and her voice sounded weak and emotional. She cleared her throat and added, “Does everyone know?”

Did Grant know?

Clive’s lips twisted with sympathy. “No, not everyone. But those of us who came in early today heard the case agents working. They had the conference room open, and they were going over the new evidence.” He lowered his voice. “This is the first I’ve heard about the letters. I wish you’d said something, Maggie.”

She shrugged, trying not to feel she’d somehow let him down. She knew he was aware of her history, because it had come up when she’d joined his team. But he’d made it clear then that her past didn’t matter to him so long as it didn’t affect her ability to do the job. And she’d proven, for four years now, that it didn’t. “It wasn’t relevant. It didn’t affect my position in SWAT.”

He gave her a small smile. “No, it didn’t.” The smile faded. “But with everything going on—”

Maggie put her hands on her hips. “You’re pulling me from the team?”

“No. But I want you to think about whether it’s the best place for you right now. If you want time—”

“I don’t.” She tried to force confidence into her tone and her expression. “The letters just mean there’s more evidence to investigate. They won’t affect my performance on the team.”

Clive frowned, as if he could see through her. “We’ve been friends a long time, Maggie. I’m here if you want to talk. And if you need a break, we’ll hold your spot. Don’t worry about that.”

“Okay.” She nodded, a lump filling her throat. There were three SWAT teams at the Washington Field Office, and agents tended to stay on the teams for years— positions very rarely opened up, and waiting lists for tryouts were long. Clive offering to hold her spot was a huge commitment.

She needed to remember she had good friends here, and focus on that, instead of the unwanted attention she was getting right now from agents who barely knew her. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” He gave her a smile that looked a little forced then headed for his own desk across the room, in the Organized Crime squad.

As he walked away, Maggie surveyed the other agents in the room. It hadn’t been her imagination. There was definitely staring.

She dropped her bag at her desk, slid her gun and cuffs into her drawer and headed back down the hall toward the coffeepot.

Hopefully, Clive was right and only the agents who’d come in early today had learned about the letters. And hopefully, those agents would get over it, stop staring and not gossip.

But the thing she hoped for most was that Grant hadn’t heard.

She had to believe the Bureau would catch the Fishhook Rapist this time. Before September 1. She refused to think anything else, no matter how dread filled her every time she thought about that date. No matter how the voice in the back of her mind sounded too much like a whisper from a decade ago, telling her, “This is going to hurt.”

She had to believe it would all be over soon, and once it was, she wasn’t going to let a few bureaucratic rules keep her from taking a chance with Grant Larkin. Assuming he wanted to take a chance with her. Assuming he hadn’t learned all of her horrible secrets.

Please, please, don’t let him know.

She chanted the words in her head as she reached the coffeepot. As she grabbed the carafe, Kammy Ming strode over, managing to project power despite her tiny five-foot frame.

“Maggie.” Kammy greeted her in the subdued tone she seemed to save just for Maggie.

“Hi, Kammy,” Maggie replied. “How’s the case going?” She clutched the carafe too tightly, certain Kammy wouldn’t tell her anything. Kammy never told her anything.

But this time, Kammy carefully tugged the carafe from her hand, poured her a cup and said, “We worked all weekend. We’re going to catch him.”

A smile trembled on Maggie’s lips as Kammy poured herself a cup, then faded as Kammy turned to leave, calling after her, “Your friend Grant has some good insights.”

Grant was on the case? Dizziness washed over her, and she would have dropped her mug of hot coffee except a pair of large hands grabbed it and steadied her.

She looked up, and there was Grant, staring down at her with concern and guilt in his deep brown eyes.

He knew. He knew all the horrible details of what had happened to her. It may have been years ago, but that didn’t change how men reacted when they found out. Especially men she was dating. Or wanted to date.

She stepped out of his grasp and braced herself.

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Grant whispered.

And right then and there, she knew anything that could have happened between them was over.