over to the coffee machine and filled another mug. The office was buzzing, despite the fact most of the agents in this office had skipped bed last night. She smothered a yawn and trudged back to her computer and pulled out her notebook, going through each record, looking for similarities with Meacher.
Hmmm . Last April, a serial sexual offender had been found in his Tampa apartment with a matching pair of slugs rattling around in his brain. Cops had no idea who killed him, but they’d received an anonymous tip-off after he was dead suggesting he was a rapist they were hunting.
Bingo .
She trolled through thirty more cases where suspected criminals had OD ’d on crystal meth or been killed by rival gangs. Not what she was after. Then she found another case similar to Meacher. Suspected pedophile. Nine millimeter between the eyes. Anonymous tip.
Mallory straightened.
Holy shit .
A yawn grabbed hold and contorted her face and she knew it was time to go home before she passed out from exhaustion. Okay, there was no solid evidence, and every case was just different enough not to create alarm bells ringing in the system, but...
“Agent Rooney.” It was SSA Danbridge standing with her coat over her arm.
Mallory jerked. The office was dark except for her desk.
“You’re making the rest of us look bad. Go home.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eyes drooping, she typed in one last search term “vigilante” while she pulled on her coat and scarf. The file was huge so she forwarded the results to her email. “Night, boss.”
She headed out the front door of the building and into the star-spangled night and found herself recalling the exact shade of Alex Parker’s eyes as he’d asked her to go to dinner. Her lips tightened. She’d messed that one up.
Tears made the stars blur. “Sorry, Pay. I’m so damn sorry.”
CHAPTER THREE
F our AM was a lonely time, the darkness had an empty feel to it. Trees cracked and creaked as the temperature dropped. The icy breeze scraped over exposed skin like pumice, raising a dull flush. A light dusting of snow made everything brighter, colder. Lonelier.
He pulled his ski-mask low er over his face, got out of his SUV, and checked that no one was around. He drew on gloves, blowing into the palms of his hands to heat cold flesh. Getting rid of a body was harder than most people would credit. He was physically fit and even he had trouble pulling a full-grown woman out of the back of his car and moving her dead weight any distance.
The body bag made it awkward to get a grip but with a little effort he managed to get it over his shoulder. He closed the trunk quietly, picked up his flashlight and headed into the bush.
There was a spot he remembered from a hike last summer, about three hundred yards off one of the official paths. She was unlikely to be found before spring, and it was close enough to the creek that critters were bound to come across the body sooner rather than later and help destroy any lingering evidence. And as careful as he’d been he wasn’t naive enough to believe there was nothing left to link her to him.
He ’d have buried her, but the ground was like concrete. This would have to do.
He ducked off the path , crunching through the detritus that littered the forest floor. He found the spot he’d earmarked and turned, scanning with his flashlight, looking for the best way to conceal the body. There was an eroded bank undercutting a huge sugar maple. He strode over, dumping the heavy bag on the ground, relieved to be rid of his burden, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache.
It took a moment to gra sp the zipper with his gloved fingers, then he rolled her out like a broken toy. Except for the bruises, she was pale against the snow. He caught her wrists and pulled her up against the wall of the earthen bank. Her hair dragged through the dirt, leaves tangling in the black strands.
She’d been a mistake.
Her hair was the right shade, but her eyes were
Hmmm . Last April, a serial sexual offender had been found in his Tampa apartment with a matching pair of slugs rattling around in his brain. Cops had no idea who killed him, but they’d received an anonymous tip-off after he was dead suggesting he was a rapist they were hunting.
Bingo .
She trolled through thirty more cases where suspected criminals had OD ’d on crystal meth or been killed by rival gangs. Not what she was after. Then she found another case similar to Meacher. Suspected pedophile. Nine millimeter between the eyes. Anonymous tip.
Mallory straightened.
Holy shit .
A yawn grabbed hold and contorted her face and she knew it was time to go home before she passed out from exhaustion. Okay, there was no solid evidence, and every case was just different enough not to create alarm bells ringing in the system, but...
“Agent Rooney.” It was SSA Danbridge standing with her coat over her arm.
Mallory jerked. The office was dark except for her desk.
“You’re making the rest of us look bad. Go home.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eyes drooping, she typed in one last search term “vigilante” while she pulled on her coat and scarf. The file was huge so she forwarded the results to her email. “Night, boss.”
She headed out the front door of the building and into the star-spangled night and found herself recalling the exact shade of Alex Parker’s eyes as he’d asked her to go to dinner. Her lips tightened. She’d messed that one up.
Tears made the stars blur. “Sorry, Pay. I’m so damn sorry.”
CHAPTER THREE
F our AM was a lonely time, the darkness had an empty feel to it. Trees cracked and creaked as the temperature dropped. The icy breeze scraped over exposed skin like pumice, raising a dull flush. A light dusting of snow made everything brighter, colder. Lonelier.
He pulled his ski-mask low er over his face, got out of his SUV, and checked that no one was around. He drew on gloves, blowing into the palms of his hands to heat cold flesh. Getting rid of a body was harder than most people would credit. He was physically fit and even he had trouble pulling a full-grown woman out of the back of his car and moving her dead weight any distance.
The body bag made it awkward to get a grip but with a little effort he managed to get it over his shoulder. He closed the trunk quietly, picked up his flashlight and headed into the bush.
There was a spot he remembered from a hike last summer, about three hundred yards off one of the official paths. She was unlikely to be found before spring, and it was close enough to the creek that critters were bound to come across the body sooner rather than later and help destroy any lingering evidence. And as careful as he’d been he wasn’t naive enough to believe there was nothing left to link her to him.
He ’d have buried her, but the ground was like concrete. This would have to do.
He ducked off the path , crunching through the detritus that littered the forest floor. He found the spot he’d earmarked and turned, scanning with his flashlight, looking for the best way to conceal the body. There was an eroded bank undercutting a huge sugar maple. He strode over, dumping the heavy bag on the ground, relieved to be rid of his burden, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache.
It took a moment to gra sp the zipper with his gloved fingers, then he rolled her out like a broken toy. Except for the bruises, she was pale against the snow. He caught her wrists and pulled her up against the wall of the earthen bank. Her hair dragged through the dirt, leaves tangling in the black strands.
She’d been a mistake.
Her hair was the right shade, but her eyes were
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