Dying To Play

Another bout of foolish emotion wreaked havoc with her equilibrium. She had to get a grip here.

A few yards away an EMT was patching up the second security guard. A uniform hovered nearby, waiting to question the wounded man.

Elaine pushed to her feet and moved in the direction of the dense crowd of official personnel, including her partner. Through a glass wall she could see him in one of the offices. Henshaw, Detective Jillette and Walt Damron, Chief Medical Examiner, were deep in discussion. Walt rarely showed up at crime scenes anymore. Elaine wondered briefly if he was shorthanded this morning.

Henshaw saw her coming and met her just outside the office door. “Everything check out all right?” he asked, eyeing her speculatively.

“Fine,” she lied. “You the first on the scene?”

He rolled the cigar stub that served as a permanent accessory to the corner of his mouth. “Yep. I guess that puts you in charge. Jillette just dropped by to watch the show. Flatt’s around here somewhere.”

Elaine resisted the urge to grimace. Flatt was an ass. He’d gone out of his way to make her life miserable since she made DC. She glanced around the chaos of the spacious, Greek-Revival-style lobby. “Looks like you’ve already initiated all the right moves.”

Henshaw angled his head toward the office he’d exited. “Want to see the primary victim and the perp? It’s just like the last one…too weird.”

She nodded, her mind automatically sifting through the images from last week’s mass murder. A customer had walked into a beauty salon and opened fire with a 9mm Beretta. No apparent motive, no nothing. A twenty-four-year-old college graduate in her first year of medical school, home for the weekend, had killed three people, then turned the weapon on herself. No family problems, no financial woes, no love-life theatrics.

Nothing.

Except four dead women, one being the shop owner.

Drawing back to the here and now, Elaine followed Henshaw through the group crowded outside the office. A brass plaque on the open door proclaimed the space as belonging to the bank’s president, Harold Tate. Mr. Tate sat crumpled in his leather executive’s chair, his starched shirt now gruesomely bloodied by the round bullet holes in his chest. Oddly, his navy-and-gray pin-striped tie lay unsoiled against the red-stained white cotton blend of his shirt.

“Brad Matthews,” Henshaw announced, staring down at the dead man on the floor in front of the president’s desk. “Financial consultant and newest full partner at Wylie, Brooks, Renzetti and Matthews just down the street. Wife, two kids, no record.” Henshaw shrugged. “Just like the lady last week.”

“Anyone here know him?” She glanced back at the employees in the lobby.

“All of ’em. They said he was a nice guy. He’s done business here, personal and professional, for years. He was quiet, polite and extremely intelligent, according to the first uniform on the scene. He said none of the employees can believe Matthews did this.”

Elaine squatted down and took a closer look at the shooter. Thirty-five maybe, fit, handsome. Two kids. She shook her head. What a terrible waste. “No problems between these two?” She looked from Matthews to the older man behind the desk, then at her partner.

“None that anyone knows of,” Henshaw said.

Elaine stood, uneasiness poking its way through her usual objectivity. Nothing about this felt right. “There has to be something,” she insisted. “Dig until you find it. Having two unmotivated mass killings this close together is simply too bizarre. There has to be a reason. We’re just missing it somehow.”

“If there’s any chance these two can be related,” Jillette offered, abruptly reminding Elaine of his presence, “I think we should work on it as a team.”

Unreasonably annoyed, Elaine looked at the man who’d spoken. He was only a couple years older than her, but he already had that male-chauvinist mentality down to a science. His dark hair was slicked back and, as usual, he was over-dressed. He looked ready to attend Sunday church service rather than investigate the scene of a multiple homicide. Jillette and Flatt did the GQ look like no one else in the division, earning themselves the nickname Ivy Leaguers.

How could she have forgotten Jillette was here? He and Flatt were working the beauty salon case. The similarity of the MO of this one had no doubt drawn them to the scene. As much as Elaine hated Flatt, she supposed Jillette’s suggestion made sense. “If we find a connection,” she qualified, “we’ll do just that.”

“Any reason we can’t get started now?” Walt wanted to know, another presence that had slipped her mind while she studied the dead man…husband…father. A parent—something she might not ever be. A pang of hurt sliced through her before she could evict the ugly reminder from her head.

Elaine surveyed the fairly undisturbed scene once more. The gray suit jacket hanging neatly in the corner where Mr. Tate had left it only minutes before his life abruptly ended. The overturned chair where Brad Matthews had fallen. The .38 Smith & Wesson Special clutched in his cold, unyielding fingers. He could have gotten that weapon anywhere. They were a dime a dozen on the street.

“Go ahead,” Elaine told Walt. “I’d like his drug tox and anything on that weapon as soon as possible.”

Walt cocked an eyebrow and feigned the offended bit a little too well. “Everything I do is done as soon as possible. Or didn’t you know that, Deputy Chief Jentzen?”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Of course, what was I thinking?” He was right. Walt was as efficient as he was meticulous. She frowned then, remembering the oddness of his presence. “What’re you doing down here, anyway? I didn’t think Kathleen allowed you out of the morgue.”

Kathleen was Walt’s secretary. She was widowed, had been for years, just as he had. It was rumored that those two were secretly in love with each other but refrained from a relationship because of the job.

The job. God, what a pathetic existence they all lived in this line of work. No wonder there were so many divorces among criminal-investigation and law-enforcement personnel.

“I’m training a couple new techs,” Walt said firmly, ignoring her comment about Kathleen.

Elaine nodded. She’d known he would do just that. “Yeah, I noticed the one in the lobby was a little trigger happy.”

Irritation wrinkled Walt’s brow as he leaned to his right to peer through the glass wall behind Elaine. She resisted the urge to turn around and see what the tech was up to now. The look on Walt’s face said it all.

Walt muttered a curse. “Can’t get decent help these days,” he complained as he stomped out of the office.

Henshaw made a covert gesture toward the door. Instinct warning her that this wasn’t good, Elaine followed him into the short corridor that led to the rear emergency exit.

“Look, Jentzen, there’s something you oughtta know,” he said quietly as he glanced first right, then left. He plucked the rarely lit stogie from his mouth.

“What is it?” she asked, instantly moving to a higher state of alert. Henshaw had been in the division longer than any other detective, even the chief. By rights he should have been deputy chief years ago, but the powers-that-be had allowed a jackleg like Hindman to keep the position until he retired, which was about ten years too long. When Hindman finally retired, Henshaw was too close to retirement himself to be considered for the position. So said the chief, anyway. Though Elaine was proud of her promotion and she damn well knew she deserved it, Henshaw had gotten a raw deal. He should have been DC years ago instead of Hindman.

“Just before you got here there were a couple of Feds snooping around.”

Elaine shrugged. “It’s a bank, they have jurisdiction. I’m surprised they’re not still here.” She actually hadn’t even thought of that until that precise moment. She swore silently. Just another example of how this morning’s appointment had rattled her. But she had to stay focused.

Henshaw stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Yeah, I know it’s their jurisdiction, but there was something funny about it. Not the least of which was that one of ’em wasn’t local.”

Elaine felt the beginnings of a low dull ache right where a frown was creasing her forehead. “What do you mean funny?”

“Trace Callahan.”

She mentally repeated the name a couple of times before recognition broadsided her. Trace Callahan. “Jesus.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Henshaw muttered. “The way I heard it the guy’s been off field duty for two years.”

Elaine considered what she knew about Callahan. According to local scuttlebutt the Bureau’s top Febbie, the nickname regular cops used for federal agents, had gone over the edge a couple years ago and had been jockeying a desk ever since. “You’re sure it was him?”

“It was him.” Henshaw lifted one shaggy gray brow and gave her the look. The one that said, I can’t say where I heard it, but you can take it to the bank, no pun intended. “Word is he actually tried to kill some perp with his bare hands shortly after that whole bizarre case two years ago.”

She’d heard the same thing. “He lost his partner, right?” If she remembered correctly, there was also gossip that Callahan and his female partner were lovers. The idea only added to her uneasiness. This was definitely not her day.

Henshaw nodded. “Yeah. Most everybody, including Callahan himself, thought it was his fault. He screwed up an operation and she bit the dust.”

Callahan had been the best of the best, the Bureau’s big star, but he seemed to just come unglued. Everybody in Homicide had heard the rumors. Though Callahan worked directly out of Quantico, the liaison agent who worked between Atlanta PD and the boys at the local Bureau office had kept the chief unofficially informed of the whole sordid story. It was front-page news for a while before the big news outlets moved on to something else.

“Well,” Elaine offered, “if Callahan is one of the Feds assigned to this case, then we’ll simply have to deal with him.”

“I’m just saying,” Henshaw countered, “that it could be risky business. That’s all.” He waved his hands in a magnanimous manner. “Hell, he could be the greatest frigging investigator on the planet, but if you can’t count on him during a field op, I don’t want no part of working with him. If he goes ape-shit again I want to be clear of the fallout.”

Elaine’s cell phone rang, saving her from having to make promises she might not be able to keep. She dragged it from her shoulder bag and flipped it open. “Jentzen.” It was the chief. He was brisk and to the point. “I’ll be right there,” she assured him. He wanted her at the office ASAP. She dropped her phone back into her bag. “Got a command performance with the chief. I’ll touch base with you later, Henshaw.”

He nodded. “I guess I’d better get over there and see how the interviews are going or Flatt’ll be taking over for me.”

Elaine watched Henshaw amble out to the lobby before she made a move to go. Callahan. Though she’d never met him in person, she’d heard plenty about him. The man had received numerous commendations from the FBI director, even a couple from the president himself. By all reports, Callahan was some sort of Bureau legend. Then, two years ago, things had gone wrong for him. According to the chief, he hadn’t been the same since. She’d seen his face splashed across the TV screen during the hoopla after his partner was murdered. Elaine shivered. He was as handsome as sin.

And every bit as deadly, if even half the rumors were true.

Chapter 3

By eleven-thirty, only twenty minutes after he’d called, Elaine stood outside the chief’s office. Connie, his longtime secretary, had told her to go on in, but she hesitated for some reason. She couldn’t actually justify her hesitation. It seemed irrational, yet she felt compelled to wait a moment longer.

Maybe it was everything that had happened that morning…a bad mix of personal crisis and unsettling professional remorse. Too much waste. Too little time. The possibility that the two mass murders could be connected—could happen again—weighed heavily on her. How was she supposed to keep Atlanta safe if she couldn’t solve these two crimes? It was her job to see that they got solved. She needed more Maalox. More time, and a frigging crystal ball.

At least, she considered, the day surely couldn’t get any worse.

Taking a deep, bolstering breath, Elaine clasped the door-knob, gave it a swift twist and pushed her way into the large, perpetually cluttered office. She didn’t bother to close the door behind her. Why feed the rumor mill? She marched straight up to the boss’s desk and produced a wide professional smile.

“Good morning, sir.”

Chief John Dugan glanced up from the papers he was riffling. “Have a seat, Jentzen. I’ll be right with you.”

That perfect blue sky she’d admired this morning served as a backdrop behind him through the wall of windows. His office had an amazing view, one of the best in the city. At night the city lights were awesome. She knew firsthand. Another twinge of regret needled her. God, if she didn’t know better she’d swear she was premenstrual.

Putting all personal worries aside, she sat down, dropped her shoulder bag to the floor, crossed her legs and relaxed into her chair. She mentally reviewed what she’d noted at the crime scene that morning. Then reviewed it again in an effort to keep her mind from wandering.

It didn’t work.

Despite her most gallant attempt, her gaze followed the chief’s every move. The slow, methodical shuffling of his strong hands. The determined set of his shoulders. He was tall and quite attractive for a man closer to fifty than forty. He wore his graying hair cropped short. Smile lines bracketed his eyes and mouth but didn’t detract from his good looks. He was a solid, good man. Inside and out.

That was what had first attracted her to him.

As a new detective assigned to his division, the only female at the time, John had taken her under his wing. He’d treated her as an equal and made sure she’d learned her lessons well. The affair had been an accident.

Neither of them had intended for it to happen. John was newly divorced, she was plain lonely. All work and no play had sent her social life on a crash-and-burn course. Falling into a relationship with John had been so easy…too easy. For an entire year they’d stolen forbidden hours every chance they got, had great sex and generally enjoyed each other’s company. But that was the extent of it. Neither of them had visions of a future together. It had been about safe, convenient sex.

Six months ago, though, when she’d gotten her promotion, Elaine had ended the relationship. She’d felt it was wrong under present circumstances. Truth be told, she’d felt more than a little uncomfortable for a while before that. John had sworn he’d recommended her for the promotion based on merit, but she couldn’t dispel the niggling little doubt that their personal relationship had somehow played into his decision.

She knew she was the best person for the job…that was a cold, hard fact. She worked harder than anyone else in the division, had from the beginning. Her very first case, kidnapping and murder involving four Atlanta children, was proof of her single-minded focus. Breaking that case had been a huge boost to her fledgling career. She’d maintained a collar record to match her ambition ever since. She was a natural at organizing ops…a born leader, John called her. But still, she was the youngest detective in the division, seniority- and age-wise. Henshaw had been the first to publicly show his support of her selection. But others, Flatt in particular, had not liked it one bit. He had even gone so far as to make little accusing remarks when he had known she would overhear.

John had told her to ignore the rumbles. It would pass, he’d assured her. And it had, for the most part. Flatt and a couple of others were still a little PO’ed about being passed over, but she could deal with them.

Still, at moments like this she wondered.

“So.” John settled back into the leather chair behind his desk and focused his full attention on her. “Does it look like the bank case could be connected to the beauty salon murders?”

“There are some similarities,” she admitted. “But it’s still too early to tell. We may discover that Matthews had a beef with Tate.” She shrugged. “Or even that he slipped over the edge for some reason. Who knows? Maybe the bank turned him or one of his clients down for a loan.”

John considered her words for a moment. “If there’s even a remote possibility that there’s some sort of shared manipulation or influence playing into this, I want you to follow it as far as you can. I don’t want another multiple homicide scene next week. The papers are going to have a field day with this. We’ll be reading about it every step of the way.”

Elaine nodded. John had to deal with the uppity-ups on these kinds of high-profile cases. The mayor would not be a happy camper if this happened a third time. Of course, all good detectives could see into the future. Determining if the two crimes were connected and preventing another one should be a piece of cake in the mayor’s opinion. It truly amazed her that the man had gotten elected.

“We’ll have to keep close reins on this one,” John reiterated, in case she didn’t get it the first time. “The mayor doesn’t want any leaks. We need to keep a lid on every aspect of this investigation.”

“I’ll do my best.”

John smiled at her. The same kind of smile that had once made her pulse react, now only flooded her with asexual feelings of affection. She wondered briefly if she’d forgone birth control during their relationship, would she have gotten pregnant? Had it already been too late then? How would he have taken that kind of complication? How would she have dealt with it? She almost sighed aloud, but caught herself. Had that whole year been another waste? If she’d tried harder, could it have been more? God, she really was a mess. She didn’t have the time or the option, careerwise, to try harder. Not then, not now.

“I know you’ll do your best,” he said, dragging her focus back to the conversation. “There’s just one glitch.”

She tensed, a warning registering. “What kind of glitch?”

He exhaled a frustrated puff of air, clearly dreading what he was about to say. “You know this one is Federal jurisdiction.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “If they want lead, they’re welcome to it.” She sure as hell wasn’t going to fight for this one. It was a no-win situation. Then again, the last thing she wanted was to be at the beck and call of a couple of arrogant Federal agents who thought they were God’s gift to women, if not mankind as a whole.

John erased all emotion from his expression right before her eyes. Uh-oh. Whenever he went deadpan, things deteriorated rapidly for the detective sitting on the opposite side of his desk.

“They don’t want lead,” he said quietly, too quietly. “In fact, they’ve asked for you by name.”

The air in the room suddenly thickened with the uncomfortable feel of a setup. Elaine arched an eyebrow as much in surprise as skepticism. “For me? Why would they want me?”

“Apparently they’ve heard of your stellar reputation.” A hint of a grin quirked his lips. “If they want the best, they’ve asked for the right detective.”

Irritation nagged at her despite the compliment. “Stop stonewalling and tell me about the glitch.” There was more to this, a lot more. She had a bad feeling. He was doling out too much good up front.

The chief took his time before answering. “Apparently there is some aspect of this case that caught the Bureau’s attention. They believe these two murder sprees are definitely connected. One of their agents thinks he may know who’s behind them.”

That was just too surreal. “We don’t even have any tangible evidence,” Elaine argued. “How the hell could he know that? It’s not like there’s even been the first real clue.”

John flared his hands, obviously as much at a loss as she was. “Beats me. But if the FBI director trusts this guy enough to follow his instincts, I’m certainly not going to question him.”

He had a point there. And a good chief or director always backed his detectives and agents. Elaine had to admit that as much as she despised Flatt personally, he was a good detective. She’d back him if the need arose.

“So, what exactly do they want?” She needed clarification here. If she was going to have to play flunky for some G-man, she wanted as much information as possible at the start.

John looked directly at her and said the last thing she wanted to hear. “They want to team you up with their agent. They want the two of you focused solely on solving this situation.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he stopped her with an uplifted palm. “They’re that sure of this guy, Elaine. I wouldn’t have said yes, if they weren’t so sure. Especially under the circumstances.”

She sprang from her chair and parked her fists on her hips. “You said yes without asking me first?”

That deadpan expression never wavered. “I did.”

She bit back the scorching four-letter word that raced to the tip of her tongue. “I hate this,” she murmured fiercely. “I want that on the record up-front. I already have a partner, a real cop. What’s Henshaw supposed to do while I’m playing lackey to some buttoned-down hotshot who thinks he’s some kind of Top Gun character?”

“Don’t worry about Henshaw,” John assured her. “We’ve got plenty to keep him busy. I thought I’d put him on the Fishnet murders.”

“Oh, he’ll love that,” Elaine mused, some of the fight draining out of her. What was the point, anyway? Damn, she needed more Maalox. Her stomach burned like hell.

The Fishnet case was a string of prostitute murders where the victims had been strangled with fishnet stockings while in a compromising position. Henshaw wouldn’t mind. He’d probably enjoy the scenery. Elaine wanted to kick something. But what was the use? She’d still be stuck working with the Feds. Up close and personally.

“This won’t be the first time you’ve worked a joint task force. What’s the big deal?” John wanted to know.

What’d he expect? Enthusiasm?

She looked directly at him and said exactly what was on her mind. “I have a partner. I don’t need another partner.” She glared at her boss for emphasis. “And I damn sure don’t want one who no doubt suffers with the same ailment all Feds do—the God complex.” One of the chief’s comments abruptly pushed its way through her irritation. Especially under the circumstances. What the hell did that mean?

“Well if it makes you feel any better, Detective,” a husky masculine voice drawled from the doorway some ten feet behind her, “I don’t want a partner, either.”

“Dammit,” she hissed, her eyes closing briefly in self-deprecation. Elaine turned slowly toward the man who’d spoken. Though she’d never met him, she recognized him instantly. That ruggedly handsome face as well as the stance, both weary and wary, contrasted sharply with his starched shirt and khakis, silk tie and polished brown leather loafers. There was something raw about him—besides the weapon nestled in its holster against that mile-wide chest. It radiated off him in waves. A distracting mix of confidence, masculinity and sexuality.

Elaine disliked him on sight.

“Elaine Jentzen,” John announced unnecessarily, then cleared his throat, “this is Special Agent Trace Callahan. Your new partner.”

Callahan strolled slowly toward her, each step a deliberate act of intimidation. But Elaine wasn’t intimidated. Surprised at her body’s foolish reaction to him, yes, but not at all intimidated. Ignoring the swirl of awareness in her gut, she thrust out her hand when he got within shaking distance.

“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure, Agent Callahan,” she said bluntly. So he was the circumstances the chief spoke of.

Callahan closed a hand over hers, unexpectedly sending a surge of pure heat spiraling through her. Those analyzing blue eyes never left hers for a second. “The pleasure’s surely mine, Detective Jentzen,” he said smoothly, so damned smoothly that she almost shivered. “And not to worry,” he added, holding on to her hand when she would have pulled away. “I left my God complex at home this morning. I’ll be sure to do that for the duration of our partnership.”