"Black at Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)

Chapter 13

Though she knew he didn't want to leave her, especially not after their amazing discovery, Wyatt left at noon to head to the office. He couldn't put Deputy Director Crandall off any longer. Brandon, who couldn't keep ducking Anspaugh, either, accompanied him.

They had, of course, refused to leave her alone and Jackie remained behind. It probably wasn't necessary. Lily felt as safe here, in his Washington home, as she had in his Maine one. Well, almost. This place didn't have the security setup, nor was it easy to stand on the upper floors and be able to see movement in any direction from a quarter mile away like she could at the beach house. But if she had lost her ability to survey the entire world spread below her, at least the town house was private, hidden from prying eyes. She might not be able to see out, but nobody could see in, either.

In the hours since Wyatt had gone, she had spent most of her time trying to readjust her thinking about what was happening in her life. Though the danger hadn't ended, and though she was still in legal hot water, mostly all Lily could focus on was the death of Roger Underwood. Her tormentor.

It was strange to realize he was gone, and had been gone for so many months. All this time, she'd pictured him out there in the world, an immense black shadow waiting for the chance to envelop her in all his darkness again, pull her back in that place where life had seemed far away and death infinitely preferable.

"Roger Underwood " she murmured, her eyes again drawn to his face, printed out in full color from the newspaper article about his "tragic" death.

FAMED LOCAL SURGEON SUCCUMBS TO EARLY DEMISE

Not early enough, as far as Lily was concerned. Too bad the son of a bitch hadn't dropped dead of a heart attack one week earlier.

She had no doubt he had, indeed, been the monster of her nightmares, the instrument of her near destruction. Once she and the others were armed with his name, the first thing they'd done was look for more samples of his voice, finding them almost immediately. He'd appeared in no less than three other recordings Brandon had tracked down, and each time she heard a syllable come out of his mouth, her stomach heaved and her skin crawled. Once, when he described some new stitching technique, she shuddered, despite the warmth of the day.

That was before Wyatt had left; he'd been there right beside her. When she'd begun to tremble, his hand had appeared on her shoulder, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, what awful, brutal moments she couldn't help remembering. He knew just how to comfort her, to reassure her she was no longer alone and would never be hurt again. Whether it was with the touch of that hand, or just a glance from the other side of the table, with concern warring with promise in his eyes, he knew exactly how to calm her.

Every additional piece of information they'd gathered about Underwood confirmed his identity in Lily's mind, even if she'd had any doubts about his voice, which she did not. Though his name was listed on a roster of registered attendees, he hadn't been a speaker at the Richmond event. And judging by the photographs of the banquet on the organization's Web site, he also hadn't been sitting at the head table when his father had received his humanitarian award. The lure of two unattended children must have been irresistible for him to risk missing the event, when he would almost certainly have been expected to be there.

The car. Had he taken it because his own was parked in the traditional valet lot, where there were cameras to mark every entrance and exit? It certainly made sense. He obviously knew his sister kept a spare key hidden inside the bumper. Wyatt had said the woman used it because of her teenage son.

God, it made her sick to think of that man being some child's uncle.

No, he wouldn't risk exposing his true nature so close to home. He liked his secret life. The one at Satan's Playground, and as Peter Pan on those message boards.

He would prey on other people's children.

Lily knew the rest of what had happened that night, right up until the moment his arm had appeared in the back of the van and he'd shot her. Then, nothing until she'd awakened in the beach shack the next day, to his furious whispers about all she had cost him and how he wanted to make her pay.

So why did you bring me here? Why haven't you killed me already?

Though she hadn't remembered before, she now knew she'd asked him those very questions.

She also remembered his reply. Killing's too good for you.

He'd left her to think about that answer, dazed, bloodied, and in such pain, for at least a day.

"You hangin' in there, chickie?" Jackie asked.

"I'm fine, really."

Depositing a tray of sandwiches on the table, Jackie ran her hand over Lily's hair before sitting down, as if she couldn't stop touching her simply to make sure Lily was real and alive. "For a bachelor, that man has one heck of a kitchen."

"It's mostly used by his housekeeper," Lily said. "Though he's not a bad cook." Better than her, anyway.

Jackie grabbed a sandwich. She'd made them a late lunch since they'd been working so hard they'd forgotten to eat. "I guess you two got pretty close all that time you were living with him."

Hearing the extremely innocent tone, Lily couldn't help casting a quick glance at her friend. Jackie's expression was equally as innocent. Too innocent. "He wasn't there most of the time," Lily reminded her.

"Really? I seem to remember that man taking a whole lot of vacation time this year. Kind of out of character, I thought at the time. I suspect he built up some major frequent-flier miles taking trips to Maine, and I doubt it was because of the weather. Especially not in March, when he seemed to be gone almost the entire month."

March, when she'd first arrived at the beach house, had been violently windy, with raging storms including one the locals called a nor'easter. Newly released from the hospital, weak, and entirely dependent upon Wyatt, Lily had actually found herself liking the weather. Tucked safely inside, listening to the wind whipping the surf into a frenzy, and watching tornadoes of sand fly off the beach, she'd felt completely protected by the storm that surrounded her. No, they couldn't get out. But neither could anyone else get in.

"So, not to be nosy or anything," Jackie said, the way someone who was about to be incredibly nosy always did, "but is something going on there?"

Lily intentionally misunderstood. "Going on where? In Maine?"

"Ha. I mean, what's with you and Wyatt? I noticed some serious vibes."

Knowing Jackie well enough to know she wouldn't be palmed off by some flip, trite answer, Lily admitted as much as she could. "There are vibes. I just don't know where they're going to lead."

The other woman bit off a corner of her sandwich and chewed, appearing thoughtful. Finally, she said, "I guess it's pretty natural to be really appreciative of someone who's done so much for you."

"This has nothing to do with appreciation, Jackie." Lily wanted to be sure that was understood. "I think it's more about finally knowing who I am, who I'm going to be for the rest of my life, and knowing he likes that person."

"No more hero worship?"

With a soft laugh, Lily asked, "Was I that obvious?"

"Maybe just to me."

"No. No more hero worship, even though he really is my hero now. But I'm not the timid little ingenue anymore."

The other woman snorted. "I already noticed you don't drop anything you're holding just because he says something to you."

God, that seemed like such a long time ago.

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, she heard a muffled sound coming from near the stone wall surrounding the courtyard. Jackie heard it, too. They both fell silent, glancing in that direction, and Lily couldn't deny her heart skipped a beat or two. She found herself wishing she hadn't left her gun up at the beach house, even though, legally, she no longer had the right to carry one.

A bird suddenly appeared. Flying up from the yard next door, it cawed loudly as it arced over their heads and was silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun. Just a bird.

"Damn, you've got me jittery now," Jackie said.

"It's fine," she insisted. "I'm fine."

"I know you are. And I promise you, Lily, you're going to stay that way. You've got a whole team of people behind you who are going to make absolutely certain of it."

Deputy Director Fred Crandall had worked his way into his position by way of intelligence, determination, drive, and luck. But his complete lack of a conscience certainly hadn't hurt. Nor had the generally slimy factor of his personality.

Wyatt couldn't stand the man and the feeling was entirely mutual. From the moment his boss had landed the job, thanks to the ass-kissing at high levels that it always took to reach this office, he'd done what he could to fuck with Wyatt. The man had just disliked him from the get-go, despite Wyatt's record, the cases he'd closed and the commendations he'd received.

Crandall's former right-hand man, Ray Letterman, who had recruited Wyatt right out of college and had once been a close friend, used to say it was pure jealousy. That while Crandall might own several thousand-dollar suits, he still wore them as if they'd come off the rack from Kmart, while Wyatt could be in a bulletproof vest and jeans and look more stylishly dressed.

Wyatt didn't believe it. It was inconceivable that a man at Crandall's level would let class envy dictate how he did his job. But something had definitely crawled up the man's ass about Wyatt even before the scandal that had cost so many-including Letterman-their careers. Since then? Well, Crandall hadn't declared outright war, but it had come pretty close. This next skirmish could end up becoming a major battle.

"Just when were you gonna let the rest of us in on your little private investigation, Blackstone?" Crandall's jowly face quivered with fury. "Do you know how fucking embarrassing it is to find out one of my own people is conducting a private investigation nobody else in the bureau knows about? If the local police hadn't contacted Anspaugh about the badge, and asked if the case was connected to the other flower murders you put out a bulletin on, we might never have known. Just how many more murders would it have taken for you to do your job?"

"I was under the impression I was doing my job," Wyatt murmured, impassive, as he'd been from the minute he'd stepped into the office. Keeping a slight smile on his mouth, with his legs crossed, and his fingers laced together on his lap, he knew the mere sight of him was sending Crandall into a frenzy. The man was all rage and bluster and Wyatt's very demeanor offended him. Yet the louder the deputy director got. the more quiet and pleasant Wyatt's response.

"Oh, right. When did it become your job to investigate serial killers? Isn't that why we have the BAU?"

"I believe, sir, that's exactly what you tasked me to do when you ordered me to form the team. Isn't catching serial killers what we've been doing since day one, starting with the Reaper?"

Crandall smirked. "Right, the one you let get away?"

The killer, Seth Covey, hadn't exactly gotten away. He'd hanged himself to avoid being taken into custody. Something Crandall and his ilk liked to call the team's failure.

"The point remains, you asked me to lead a team that would solve Internet-related murders, and that's what I've been doing."

"This case isn't about Internet murder and you know it!"

Wyatt shrugged. "I disagree. The victims were chosen specifically because of the Web sites, chat rooms, and message boards they frequented. They were stalked on those sites. Their meetings were arranged in cyberspace. How much more wired does a case need to be?"

Crandall smacked his hand on his desk. "I meant this case is about a whole lot more than the Internet."

"Perhaps, but are you denying the basic elements are all there?" Wyatt wasn't about to let it go, needing Crandall to admit he had no reason to take the investigation away from him. "My interest was captured purely by virtue of the Internet lure, the e-mail communications and the child-pornography sites visited by the victims. Unless the definition of Internet connection has changed, I was doing absolutely nothing other than my job."

The other man frowned, but couldn't deny it. He leaned back in his chair, his pig eyes narrowing to twin slits. "Why didn't the rest of your team know about it?"

"We're a very busy group. That murder-for-hire case was at its peak, and we hadn't officially been asked to help on the first few murders. I was, essentially, gathering information, laying the groundwork for bringing the team in."

"You sure about that? You sure you didn't keep it to yourself when you figured out it had something to do with Lily Fletcher?"

This was the first time Lily's name had come up, but of course Wyatt had been expecting it, so he managed to remain completely impassive. "Fletcher?"

"Don't be coy."

"Why would I connect the case to her? I didn't receive the call about the latest victim, found holding her badge. What other reason was there to think she might have some connection?"

Crandall yanked a file folder off a pile on the corner of his desk and flipped it open. "How about because the killer left lilies at every scene?"

"You would have preferred daisies?"

Crandall sputtered.

"My point is there are probably hundreds of varieties of flowers. Why would one variety make me think of a woman lost in the line of duty so many months ago?" he added, emphasizing the line of duty part. Because Crandall might be thinking of Lily as a suspect already, but that didn't mean he should be. "The next time we find a body lying near a rosebush, should we put out an APB on anyone named Rose?"

Crandall's face reddened more as he grew more irritated, more distracted from the main point. That was good. Wyatt wanted him distracted, kept off guard, and going in the wrong directions, if only to prevent the man from asking the right questions.

Trying to keep the exchange normal, not give Crandall any reason to think he could get away with treating him like anything other than an equal, Wyatt said, "I apologize for not being here yesterday when the new case came in. I was, as you know, out of state. I'll look forward to seeing the details on it."

Crandall didn't respond, just watched him in silence, staring right into Wyatt's eyes. Wyatt had absolutely no problem holding that stare, maintaining his calm, aloof demeanor. He had faced men far more intimidating than Deputy Director Fred Crandall, and if the man thought he could browbeat him, he was sorely mistaken.

Crandall had exactly one weapon he could use against Wyatt. One card he could play that would bring him to heel and have him doing whatever the man wanted. Fortunately, though, he did not yet know that one weapon was still alive.

If asked directly, would Wyatt have lied about it? Said he didn't know if Lily had survived, or where she might be? Considering his aversion to lies of any sort, he wasn't sure. Thankfully, he'd been spared from having to decide because the question had not come up.

A knock on the closed office door was quickly followed by someone opening it and stepping in uninvited. "I heard you were meeting. I think I should be a part of this."

Tom Anspaugh. The agent, with his ill-fitting suit, his crooked tie, and his red-rimmed eyes didn't look well. In fact, he looked like someone who had filled a lot of long, sleepless nights with a lot of cheap liquor. But he had apparently begun to work his way back into Crandall's good graces by bringing news of Wyatt's secret investigation to the deputy director's office.

"Oh, excellent," Wyatt said, forcing himself to nod politely at the other agent, whom he had disliked for a long time, but truly loathed after he'd left Lily unprotected and vulnerable. "Deputy Director Crandall was updating me on the new information you've received about my case."

He didn't know who looked more shocked at his gall, Crandall or Anspaugh.

"Your case?" Anspaugh finally snapped. "I'm working this case now."

Ignoring him, Wyatt addressed the deputy director. "Is there some problem here? Didn't we just agree about the Internet aspects of these murders?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then why is this even being discussed?" He tossed a disdainful look Anspaugh's way. "I mean, Special Agent Anspaugh has most recently been working on bankruptcy-fraud cases, hasn't he?"

The other agent's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. He didn't like being reminded about his loss in status.

Crandall, however, needed the reminder. In his zeal to screw with Wyatt, he'd somehow managed to forget he'd made Anspaugh a fall guy as well.

"Look, Blackstone " Anspaugh said, "you're out of this thing now. I got the call about Lil. You can't very well investigate one of your own employees for murder."

Wyatt managed to convey a look of complete surprise. "Excuse me?"

Crandall cleared his throat and frowned at Anspaugh. "To be clear, we're not assuming Agent Fletcher is a suspect. We're not even assuming she is actually alive, despite the evidence to the contrary."

"You have evidence that she is alive?"

"The badge-"

"Was obviously taken from her by the man who shot her and drove off with her in the back of that van last January. Who knows where it ended up after that night? Besides, even if she were alive, do you really think she'd be stupid enough to leave her own badge behind at a crime scene?"

Anspaugh, beginning to appear nervous, shot off his mouth again. "Look, maybe she's not actually alive, but this case involves her somehow. And her last boss can't be the one investigating it."

His tone silky smooth, Wyatt replied, "As I recall. Tom, on Lily's very last assignment, she was under your supervision." Pure, unadulterated anger must have shown through his eyes, because Anspaugh almost imperceptibly drew back under his stare. "Your protection. You did promise me she'd be protected, remember?"

The other man's neck worked as he swallowed, hard. "We couldn't have known."

"Anybody knows you don't leave two inexperienced agents used to doing only electronic surveillance alone in a van with no backup." Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest, needing to hide his hands, which were clenching into fists. "Kowalski was a computer specialist, just like Lily, not a field agent. They should have been covered at all times."

Crandall tilted his head back, his disdainful mood now focused on Anspaugh as much as on Wyatt. Anspaugh had been crucified in the investigation, and Crandall hadn't forgotten the black eye it had given him, as well.

Apparently seeing he was losing ground, Anspaugh jumped right back in the fight, stubborn and belligerent. "Look, Blackstone, we all know her body was never found and she could be alive. If she is, then she's gone rogue, turned into some kind of vigilante. And you know as well as I do that rogue agents aren't investigated by the Cyber Division."

A slight smile touching his lips, Wyatt addressed Crandall. "Excuse me; I was under the impression that Agent Fletcher's employment with the bureau expired when she did."

He didn't have to go on. Crandall's frown and the sneer on his lips said he understood. An FBI agent suspected of a crime would require an internal-affairs investigation. A former agent? Now it got sticky.

Anspaugh gave it one more shot. "Come on, I've done a lot of work on this____________________"

"Since yesterday?" Wyatt asked, lifting one brow. "I can't imagine how you could possibly have more information on this case than I have accumulated in the past several weeks. Especially considering I was on the scene of all of the first three murders, two of them before the bodies were even removed."

Another argument Crandall could not deny. This time, he didn't even try to stall, or wait for Anspaugh to throw up another false objection. He merely waved a weary hand in the air, gesturing them both out. "Fine. Get back to work. Blackstone, I want to be kept apprised of this situation every step of the way."

Tom Anspaugh shot to his feet. "But I need to be part of this! I lost everything because of Fletcher, the stupid little-"

Before he could even form the final word of his vicious comment, Wyatt leapt up as well, leaning in until his face was two inches from Anspaugh's. The fury he'd felt toward the man for so many months made his voice shake and every muscle in his body contract. "Don't you blame somebody else because you couldn't manage to keep your own people alive during your fucked-up undercover operation." He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a near growl. "Don't you even dare."

Then, knowing Crandall had to be as shocked as Anspaugh appeared to be, Wyatt spun around and strode toward the door, not casting a single look back at either of them.

In the old days, by four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, Will Miller would be parked on a stool at his favorite bar, having had an appetizer of Bud while he worked his way toward the main course of Wild Turkey, with a few shots of schnapps in between strictly to cleanse the palate.

Not anymore.

"We've come a long way, baby," he told his young grandson as he unbuckled the car seat he'd just bought for the kid from the car he'd just bought for himself! This weekend, he would take his daughter out and buy her one, too. Nothing ritzy or glamorous, something reliable and used like this one. He had money to spend, but not millions. He wanted it to last, to give them all a chance at a better life.

Whatever she drove would be an improvement on the bus. Even better, if he had his way, she would soon be driving it to the community college, to work on the degree she'd given up on when she got pregnant. Getting her to quit that lousy job at the diner was his number-one priority.

"She's gonna ask us questions about the money, isn't she?" he asked little Toby. 'Can you say lottery? Lot-ter-y."

The kid babbled something, his stuffed-up nose making the gibberish even more impossible to translate. The medicine he'd just picked up for him would fix that.

"Mommy's gonna be happy, isn't she? She thought I was just babysitting you today, but we surprised her with a trip to the clinic, didn't we?"

A clinic with a real doctor, who'd taken one look at Toby's nose and prescribed him a good antibiotic to clear up the infection. He'd be better within a day or two.

His grandson would be healthy and his daughter would get to go back to school. He'd move them both to a decent place, out of this ratty, run-down neighborhood. Will was finally going to be able to pay back the people who'd stuck by him.

For once, his life was really looking up.

Toby wrapped his chubby arms around Will's neck, twining his slobber-wet hands in the short gray hairs behind his ears. And Will's heart welled up, the same way it had many years ago, when he'd first started to see the real person his own firstborn son was becoming, after months of looking in a crib and seeing nothing but a crying lump.

This little guy had personality. He was also just about the cutest baby anybody had ever seen-even the nurse at the clinic said so.

"I'll keep you safe, buddy," he whispered.

Safe from sickness. Safe from poverty. Safe from bad people…

Jesus. His thoughts had taken him there again. Right to the place he'd tried so hard to avoid going in the past few days, ever since he'd gone into a lawyer's office and sworn in an affidavit that some guy named Jesse Boyd had been drinking with him in a bar on one specific night a few years back.

If he'd done some research, if Will had gone on the computer to look up the guy's crimes, would he have still gone through with it? What did it say about him as a person that he'd lied, for money, to help set a goddamned child molester and murderer free?

"Pop-pop-pop-pop," Toby said with a sleepy smile, mumbling the words Will had been teaching him every day for a week.

God forgive me.

A little kid. A little boy not much older than Toby. Boyd had taken him. Hurt him. Killed him.

If there was a hell, Will would someday be there with the man he'd helped set free, both of them sitting front row, center.

"Pop-pop."

"That's right, I'm your pop-pop," he said, kissing the tousled blond curls on the top of the baby's soft head. "And I'll always be there for ya, kid. I'm gonna watch over you, take care of-"

A loud noise cut off his sentence. Pop! Pop! Something hit him, then something else, bang-bang, two in a row.

The bullets struck hard, pain erupting in his lower back, and in his left shoulder. He stumbled forward from the impact, staggering onto the sidewalk, dropping to his knees. Even as he fell, he was careful to hold the baby up so his tiny frame didn't smash onto the cement.

The sharp pain from each gunshot rapidly expanded, spreading throughout his body before merging to create one enormous torrent of anguish. He'd never known a person could hurt so much.

"Toby." The word lingered on his lips. As he started to fall forward, knowing he was going to land on his face, he gently pushed the boy to the side, out of harm's way.

"Help," he whispered, not even sure he understood what had happened. "Help."

Toby began to whimper. Then to cry. But his cries were drowned out by the sound of a car's engine, revving up and roaring away, the tires spinning and screaming on the blacktop as the vehicle tore up the block.

"Pop-pop?"

Will reached for the boy, his own flesh and blood, the kid who was supposed to be his chance to make everything right, to do it all over again. He wanted to touch him, to stroke that hair, brush his fingers against that little cheek, and promise it would all be okay.

But his fingers were bloody and his arm was weak and he was dying, and Will could only stare at the child as the world went dark and he headed for his front row, center seat.