He believed that Jasper was the man he sought. Which meant that Jasper’s rich, successful wife was in jeopardy. But until every element of doubt had been erased, until Drex had irrefutable proof that Talia was living with a man who had buried another woman alive, he couldn’t risk warning her.
He wouldn’t call in the cavalry with Rudkowski leading the charge. That would spell certain disaster. Rudkowski, who didn’t know the definition of finesse, would bungle it, give them away, and then God knew what Jasper would do. It chilled Drex to think of it. He was dealing with a personality that had a very sharp tipping point, one who was in control…until he wasn’t.
His short-term goal was clear: maintain his cover while keeping Talia safe from the man she lived with. He would do whatever he could to prevent her from becoming victim number nine and meeting a fate like Marian Harris’s. He was committed to protecting her life, regardless of how she looked.
But she looked like Talia Shafer, and he would be lying not only to his friends but also to himself if he didn’t admit that her appeal upped his level of commitment to spare her life. If Jasper Ford was who he suspected, seeing him brought to justice would no longer be sufficient or satisfying. Drex wanted to engage in mortal hand-to-hand combat. He wanted to eviscerate him.
Of course he acknowledged that such macho thinking was juvenile, stupid, and dangerous. If he went at Jasper Ford for any reason other than getting justice for eight women, he would be in hock with Rudkowski for the rest of his life.
Beyond that, allowing emotions to call the shots was a recipe for disaster. Emotions messed with a man’s mind. They either weakened his resolve or made him so determined, he grew reckless. One misstep, one reflexive reaction or unplanned remark could expose his playacting. Because Jasper would be watching. A single mistake, no matter how slight, could lead to failure. Worse, it could lead to Talia’s death.
Sure as hell, Weston Graham, aka Daniel Knolls, aka Jasper Ford would be at the top of his game, staying cool, playing it smart.
So must Drex be.
But, God, that was going to be difficult when he couldn’t rid his mind of Talia’s brandy-colored hair, the skin that tended to freckle, the gray eyes that bespoke intelligence and goodwill, but also hinted at an irresistible elusiveness.
The loose-fitting clothes she had worn on the yacht hadn’t been provocative or revealing, but Drex had imagined the shape inside them to be compact and sweet. When she’d talked about desiring chairs that conformed to the human body, he’d desired to have her human body conforming to his, her bottom nestling against his middle, seeking the perfect fit, finding—
Christ!
He slid his hand beneath the sheet. He was hot. He was hard. He was going to hell for coveting his neighbor’s wife. He would burn for committing whatever the biblical term was for the sin of sexual self-gratification.
He wasn’t deterred.
Chapter 6
Bill Rudkowski entered his office carrying a sixteen-ounce thermal container of coffee in one hand, his briefcase in the other, and the imperishable chip on his shoulder.
He wasn’t overly fond of mornings in general, but he downright despised Mondays. He greeted his assistant with a brusque nod. “Anything?”
“Everything needing your attention is on your desk.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Guessing by your glower, I’m thinking your team lost yesterday.”
“They suck.” He entered his private office and kicked the door shut with his heel.
On his desk was more paperwork than he wanted to tackle before he’d finished his coffee. Once fortified with caffeine, and resigned to it being the beginning of another week, he started working his way through the pile.
He sorted the callback messages according to levels of urgency, scrawled his illegible signature on documents requiring it, and scanned updates on several active cases. When done, he spun his chair around to his computer and booted up.
The third email in his in box drew his attention immediately because of the name in the subject line. Marian Harris.
A case number followed her name. There was an attachment. The brief message in the body of the email read: I thought you might want to see this again, too. It was signed by an individual he had never heard of, a Deputy Randall Gray. His official contact info was that of the sheriff’s department, Monroe County, Florida, but he had included his cell phone number.
Rudkowski opened the attachment. He recognized the photograph as the one taken aboard Marian Harris’s yacht during a cocktail party at sunset. Following her disappearance several months later, everyone in the snapshot had been identified, tracked down, and interviewed by Key West PD, the sheriff’s office, and/or FBI agents.
Rudkowski, who had closely monitored the case, had requested colleagues in south Florida to keep him in the loop of their investigation, since the Harris woman’s mysterious disappearance bore similarities to other unsolved missing person cases with which he was familiar.
The case cooled and then went cold. Two years, give or take, had passed.
He had heard nothing further until her body was discovered, roughly three months ago. It had been a grisly find. Because of the swampy environment in which she’d been buried, her body was badly decomposed. It had yielded no clues as to who had nailed her inside the crate. The bloody claw marks on the inside of the lid indicated the unsub was a sicko of the lowest order.
While authorities in Florida were investigating there, Rudkowski rounded up a team of agents and used every criminal database, domestic and abroad, to search for a connection between Marian Harris and perps known to have buried their victims alive.
A distressing number of known suspects were still at large. Some remained unidentified. Of those who had been captured and convicted, a number of them were deceased. Several had been executed for their crimes, one had been killed by another inmate during a prison riot, others had died of natural causes while incarcerated. Which left those living out their remaining days behind bars. Rudkowski saw to it that all among that number were questioned.
One had actually confessed to Marian Harris’s abduction and murder, but he was a schizophrenic and habitual confessor, who liked to brag about gory atrocities he hadn’t committed. He had, in fact, been incarcerated in San Quentin when the Florida woman disappeared.
Of those questioned who denied ever having heard of Marian Harris, there wasn’t any incriminating evidence to indicate otherwise. None could be linked to her.
The investigation again had stalled.
Rudkowski wondered why he’d been sent the familiar photograph now without a note of explanation. If newfound evidence had regenerated the investigation, why wasn’t there an accompanying brief bringing him up to speed?
He closed the attachment and went back to the email. His gaze snagged on the last word of the brief message. Too. I.e., in addition to. Also.
His Monday morning tanked.
Muttering foul epithets, he snatched up the receiver of his desk phone and told his assistant to get Deputy Gray on the line. Then he waited, drumming his fingers on his desktop until the call was put through.
“Gray?”
“Yes, sir, Agent Rudkowski. Good morning.”
Like hell it was. “I’m calling about the photograph you emailed me last night.”
“Yes, sir?”