Cold Fear (36 page)

“Think you can lie on your front?” he asked when she returned to Earth.

He helped her roll over and moved her gently down the bed.

“I feel like a geriatric sex fiend,” she complained.

“You any less unsatisfied?” he asked, sounding unaffected, but she wasn’t fooled.

“Three orgasms or go home, that’s what I always say.” She laughed, but inside a little piece of her wept. He would go home, and she wasn’t sure why the idea left her so bereft.

She felt him behind her then and for a moment remembered Duncan Cromwell beating her as she lay cowering on the ground. But Frazer’s touch was feather light, barely grazing her skin as he smoothed the blackening bruises on her torso. With no warning he slid inside her, curling his body protectively over her back, but giving her none of his weight.

It felt amazing. She felt wrapped up in him, filled by him, mesmerized by his strong body, his clean fresh scent, his healing heat.

Then he held her hips again, moving slowly, gently, but going deep, touching her just there and that feeling of wonder spiraled tighter and tighter inside her, contracting down until all that mattered was the friction of his flesh dragging against hers. His hand slipped down between her folds to touch her and she was spinning again, out of control, extraterrestrial, outer space, flying and cartwheeling all the way to Mars. He joined her, shuddered, and cried out.

She pressed her face into the pillow as he withdrew, and he shifted her on the bed and then cradled her to him.

As battered and sore as she was, she’d never had sex that good before. She doubted she’d ever have sex that good again, because it wasn’t just about technique or size of the equipment. It was about the human connection. The person you were with. About how you felt about them. What they meant to you. And Izzy had the horrible feeling that Lincoln Frazer could mean everything to her.

His phone rang, and he rolled over to answer it. “Frazer. Yes. In the clearing? You mean
directly
beneath the other body? This is no copycat. It has to be an accomplice.” Frazer’s voice faded as he left the room and headed into the bathroom. She heard the shower turn on and the words were lost, but not the level of urgency. She rolled onto her side and slowly eased into a sitting position. She found some fresh underwear and loose sweats and pulled them on, one-handed. Forgoing a bra, she dug out a large t-shirt from her drawer, and then a fleece-lined zipped hoodie.

She didn’t know what had Frazer all riled up, but she feared the murder investigation wasn’t over yet. She went into the living room and sat on the couch, dragging the box toward her. She quickly sorted the photographs into stacks of different years. What had been an unmanageable mess was turning into something much more doable. Organizing was one of the things she did best. Keeping busy kept her sane. Especially when she realized she’d fallen in love with a man who was going to hate her, just as soon as she worked up the courage to tell him the truth about her past.

Chapter Twenty-Two

F
RAZER NEVER USUALLY
spent more than a couple of nights away from the office. The work was piling up, his agents needed his attention, and yet he wasn’t done here. He had a horrible feeling he’d never be done.

He went to check on Isadora sorting the photographs into piles with military efficiency. All composed on the outside, battered and bruised beneath. He went back to the bedroom to get dressed. She’d withdrawn a little—she knew he was leaving soon. Even though they’d agreed it was just sex, neither of them actually believed it. And neither believed they had a future.

She still had secrets he wanted to delve into. Hell, he had secrets, darker than anyone would ever imagine. As much as he wanted to know what made her tick, he couldn’t afford that level of honesty.

The phone call he’d received had been Hanrahan. They’d found the body Denker had told them about, not just in the clearing but buried directly below where Elaine Patterson had been found. Not only that, Elaine had been placed in the exact same orientation as the skeleton. It was extremely unlikely this was the work of a copycat or a disciple. The killer had to be someone who’d actually seen the first woman buried. Participated. Ferris Denker had had a partner.

Hanrahan was furious with himself for missing it, but how could he have known? They hadn’t even heard about this victim until Denker told them. How many other women were out there somewhere? Lying in unmarked graves; some serial killer’s twisted little secret?

It tied his gut in knots that no matter how hard he worked, how diligently he fought them, there was always another predator out there, biding his time.

Frazer didn’t think Denker had always worked with someone, but Denker said this victim was his first kill, the first victim probably for both killers—so they could easily have messed up and left some damning evidence at the scene. Frazer felt certain both killers had attended the school where they’d buried the body.

Was Duncan Cromwell the man who’d honed his killing skills with a young Ferris Denker? Frazer didn’t know, but he intended to find out.

Dressed, he headed back into the living room. While he’d been brooding, Isadora had stacked the entire box worth of photographs into about twenty different piles and was now sub-sorting the years he’d mentioned into those images with boys’ faces, and those without.

Her efficiency snapped him out of his lethargy.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, sitting back on her heels. She’d put her sling on, so her wrist must be hurting. He hoped that wasn’t his fault. If it was, he hoped it had been worth it.

“I’m hoping to find a photograph of a young Duncan Cromwell.”

“Really?” She looked surprised.

She pulled out a series of photographs of boys. Then hit the jackpot with a photograph of several hundred kids in the official school portrait for 1979. The problem was he didn’t have time to get everyone in the picture age-progressed and he didn’t recognize Denker or Cromwell straight off.

“Do you have a scanner?” he asked.

She nodded. “In the office. Go ahead and help yourself.” She pointed down the hallway.

“Thanks.” He hesitated, trying to remember the manners his mother had tried so hard to instill. “I really appreciate your help.”

Isadora smiled but there was a distance there now, one he didn’t have time to breach. Later. Later he’d make time. When the case was over and they managed to talk about something other than murder.

Sure. When hell froze over.

God, he needed a life.

The office contained a stack of packing boxes. He flipped open the top of one and realized they were Isadora’s belongings, as if she hadn’t quite convinced herself she was staying. Did she love it here? Was this where she intended to spend the rest of her life? Or did she resent being forced to stay here and look after a teen who was more than a handful?

Did they have any chance of a relationship? He was a man defined by his job, but she was a doctor and seemed to feel the same way about hers. A couple of days ago, these sorts of musings would have sent him straight out the door, but now he wanted to figure her out—and figure out a way to keep seeing her. To maybe have a future together.

He shook his head at himself. After avoiding any entanglement for the last two decades, he’d gone and fallen for a woman who was guardian to a seventeen-year-old female with an uncanny ability to raise hell. Still, Kit Campbell was a good kid. Probably.

It didn’t take a psychology degree to figure out some of his “issues” stemmed from the fear of being rejected. Most kids who lost a parent had abandonment issues, even when the parent had no choice as to whether or not they left. Fear of rejection led to emotional distancing, which had contributed to the breakup of his disastrous, short-lived marriage. He was scared to let anyone close, scared to reveal that the real him was less than the perfect shell he showed the world.

He rubbed his beard-roughened jaw and knew he really needed to duck next-door to shave. He stayed where he was, booting up the old PC, figuring out how to hook up the scanner.

He heard the TV go on in the living room. Isadora was watching the news. He called Hanrahan and told him what he wanted him to do. It involved a trip to Mildred Houch’s house and a truckload of patience as she looked at the school photo. He scanned the image to maintain resolution. Hopefully, Mildred could ID Denker and his friends. And perhaps she’d remember the name Duncan Cromwell, but he didn’t want Hanrahan to give her that name upfront. See if the lady came out with it on her own. His old mentor was good at that sort of thing. Good at eking out information. The key was to get people talking without even knowing they were doing it, and then learning how to listen. Frazer’s forte was more prodding and poking until he got a reaction. Different things worked on different people.

He emailed the file and then heard a sound from the living room, as if Isadora was in pain. His hand reached for his SIG as he raced out the door.

Isadora’s eyes were huge as she stared at the news screen. “The reporter said there is evidence to suggest Ferris Denker didn’t kill any of those women. The press is starting to speculate the state might be about to execute an innocent man.”

He put his gun away and walked towards her. “Ferris Denker is trying to stir up trouble to get himself out of the hot seat at the end of the month. He’s guilty as hell.”

She hugged herself with her uninjured arm. The pain in those sage green eyes did something to his insides. “One of the women he was convicted of murdering was the one you found on the beach. Beverley Sandal, right?”

He nodded. The information had been released to the media, but they hadn’t IDed the unknown male found with her yet.

“And because of that fact you’re now trying to link Duncan Cromwell to Ferris Denker—you’re trying to link the new crimes to the old ones.” Her knees seemed to give out as she collapsed to the sofa. She pointed at the box of photographs. She’d placed all the ones they hadn’t used back into the box. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

He nodded, but suddenly the feeling in his gut wasn’t admiration or something unnamable. It was dread. Because those eyes told him she knew something he didn’t. Something important to this investigation.

She massaged the fingers at the end of her casted wrist. “What if Denker didn’t kill Beverley Sandal. Would that change anything?”

The wash of the waves was growing stronger on the beach. The rise of the wind was starting to howl. Everything grew louder inside his head. His own personal storm. “Denker named Beverley as one of his victims.”

“But what if he lied?” she insisted. “What if he really is innocent and spent all those years in prison…” She looked as if she was about to throw up.

“That’s what he wants us to believe. If he can create doubt about his conviction he might get a stay of execution from a governor notoriously unsympathetic when it comes to condemned killers.”

Isadora shook her head and he noted the expression in her eyes. Absolute devastation. “But I know he didn’t kill her,” she whispered.

Ice spread over his body. “How do you know?”

“Because my father did.”

Frazer felt like someone had slammed him into a brick wall. “What do you mean?”

“I have something to tell you.” Her voice was fluttery and weak. “I meant to tell you before, but I was worried about Kit, and I honestly didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t plan everything else that happened between us.” She bit her lip, and he felt himself shrinking inside, withdrawing, moving further away from the lover and becoming the federal agent he was supposed to be.

He sat beside her, but didn’t touch. “Tell me.”

She glanced at him, and he knew whatever she said was going to rip him to shreds. He sat there, waiting for it.

“A little over seventeen years ago, I came home late from a party and found my parents in the driveway of the beach house.” She pointed outside. “Dad had been away on a business trip and was back early. I saw the light on and ran down to say hi.”

The murmur of the storm, the tick of a clock, the muted buzz of the TV, all formed background noise, but only Izzy’s words mattered. “I found them sitting on the ground. Mom was holding Dad in her arms, and at first I didn’t understand what was going on. I thought he’d had a heart attack or something.”

Frazer felt cold all over. Detached. Desolate. But he had a job to do and the job
always
came first—something she’d made him forget for a brief period of time. “Okay, hold on for a moment. I’m going to take you back to that night, Isadora. I want you to lie on the couch and I’m going to hypnotize you and you are going to tell me
everything
.” This way she’d be less likely to lie or forget some small relevant detail. “Are you okay with that? If you need a lawyer, say so now.”

“No. No lawyer. I want to get this over with.” Her eyes met his, swimming with tears, but they didn’t affect this version of Lincoln Frazer. This version hunted monsters.

He smiled. “You’re in safe hands. Trust me.”

*     *     *

T
HE DISTANCE BETWEEN
them yawned to a gulf as big as the Atlantic stirring up outside. This was what she’d known would happen, what she deserved. The feeling of cold rushed over her with a blast of grief. Whatever they might have had was lost now. Gone. Dead. Destroyed. And she’d been the one to do it.

“Take a few deep breaths…” His voice sounded like an icicle being dragged down her spine.

What did it even matter anymore? Just give him this. Get it over with.

He entranced her with the calm quiet voice she recognized from when he’d hypnotized Jesse. Impersonal. Kind. She hated it, because it hid the real him beneath a cool perfect facade, rather than the flesh and blood man who’d made love to her as if she meant something.

“Let go, Isadora.”

The words made her eyelids heavy, and they drifted shut even though she tried to keep them open. Suddenly she was reliving that awful night seventeen years ago…