Slave to Love (3 page)

And yet, the woman’s half-lidded looks and sensual moves could make a man’s temperature rise in an Arctic snowstorm. Something about those big eyes, the color of a Caribbean sky at twilight. And those hooker outfits sure didn't help.

Yeah, he was having second thoughts, all right. Major ones. Being this close to her all day every day could prove to be a real distraction, and to get through this ordeal he’d need every ounce of his concentration. He might not be interested in her beyond her involvement in this case, but hell, he was only a man.

He just hoped they wouldn't run into any Arctic snowstorms any time soon.

He opened the trunk of his car and grabbed the black sports bag holding the murder kit and tossed it to Caroline. “You're in charge of this. And memorize the contents while you're at it.”

Lifting the crime scene tape, he ushered her through, fielding a few blatant stares from the group of cops milling on the front lawn. He introduced her to Denzell Brown, who was in charge of access to the house.

“This is Officer Palmer, Denny. She's with me.”

“His new assistant,” she clarified. She gave Brown a look that dared him to comment on either that or her scanty attire.

“Coroner here yet?” Mick asked as they signed in.

“Right after FIS. Just waiting for you to give the go-ahead before transporting the bodies,” Denny said, still grinning at Caroline like a fool in love. He pointed with his clipboard. “Upstairs on the left.”

In the living room the usual carefully organized chaos reigned, and Mick felt the powerful kick of adrenalin he always got before descending into the hell of blood and stench of murder—but especially this time. The team from FIS and their equipment jostled for space in the cramped staging area, the three of them calling instructions to each other. The distraught neighbor who'd discovered the bodies was parked across the hall at the dining room table, being fussed over by a female uniform and a paramedic.

Bobby jerked his head in the direction of the sobbing witness and veered off to the dining room to get in a few questions before the medic could pump her full of tranqs.

“Stay close and don't touch a thing,” Mick admonished Caroline. He knew there wouldn’t be any more evidence here than at the last scene, but he wanted to train her well. He’d need her alert to every detail and discrepancy on this case.

“I will,” she murmured, not even reacting to his pre-emptive order. Progress.

He unzipped the black bag she still held and pulled out two PPD baseball caps, tugging one onto his own head and the other onto hers, then grabbed a couple pairs of paper booties. “Here,” he ordered, thrusting hers toward her. “Put these over your shoes.”

She was doing her best to look unaffected and professional as she booted up. The only thing giving away her nervousness was the way her eyes darted around, never settling on any one thing. He rooted in the bag for a small vial of mentholated gel.

“Hold still.” He dolloped a generous fingerful and held onto her chin, spreading it above the delicate bow of her lips. They parted a fraction and she stared at him from behind a lock of stray hair stuck in the brim of her baseball cap, but didn't say a word. With any luck the gel would at least keep her conscious.

“You'll do fine,” he assured her, wishing he was that certain, then handed her a pair of latex gloves before he could do something really stupid like brush that stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Detective-In-Charge,” he said, flashing his badge to the uniform posted at the top of the stairs, where they were directed to the back bedroom on the left. Pausing at the door, he donned his gloves, pulled out his mini tape recorder, pushed the record button and stepped carefully into the room. Déjà vu swept over him.

Behind him, he heard Caroline's short gasp.

He made a quick survey, left to right, knowing even before he looked what he would see. They were definitely dealing with the same killer. “Who was the first on the scene?” he called over his shoulder and past the forensics guys awaiting his release of the room back to FIS.

“I was, Detective.” An officer stepped out from behind them.

“Come on up here.” Recognizing the seasoned patrolman, Mick knew Brady Washington would have scrupulously maintained the integrity of the scene until FIS got there. “Talk to me, Brady.”

“Got the call at eight-twenty,” Washington said, consulting his notes. “Victims are Glenn Berg and Wendy Tailor. The neighbor, Mrs, uh, Connie Slocum, was coming for her usual Monday breakfast date with Tailor, and when Tailor didn't answer she let herself in using a key they keep under a flower pot by the door.”

“You check that?”

“Yep. Still there.” He snapped his notebook shut.

“She found the bodies?”

Brady nodded. “Tailor had her exercise bike up in the spare bedroom and sometimes lost track of time. Neighbor went up to check on her. Found them both dead and called 9-1-1. Officer Brown and I arrived at eight-twenty-nine—” Mick pursed his lips in approval of their speed “—and searched the premises. Doors and windows locked. No sign of forced entry.”

“Neighbor touch anything?”

“No, sir. Not that she remembered. Ran down to the kitchen to use the phone. That's where Denny and me found her.”

“Okay, thanks. Send a copy of your notes to my office, will you, Brady?”

“Sure thing, Detective.”

Beside him, Caroline's gaze had fastened on the victims, and she was looking rather peaked. But then, he'd expected that. She wouldn't be human, otherwise. He turned his attention to the bodies.

“Male and female victim,” he droned into the recorder. Both FIS and the Coroner would have already done this, but Mick habitually recorded his own impressions and then compared all three sets. Everyone saw things differently. And there was something bothering him. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. The Teddie Killer was careful, and at this point predictable. But there was still something...

Never mind. It would come to him.

“Approximately mid-thirties,” Mick continued. He looked carefully at the floor before venturing closer to the bed and the chair sitting at the foot of it.

“One set of heel scrape marks on the carpet. No other visible foot prints. No overt signs of struggle from either victim,” he recited. “No visible implements or weapons. Male's clothes are neatly folded over the footboard.

“Female lying on her back on the bed with hands laced over her stomach, legs together. Ligature marks and some bruising on the wrists and ankles but no sign of the restraints. Eyes closed, some petechial hemorrhaging around them. Narrow red ligature mark across her throat. Light bruises on hips rounding to the buttocks. Wearing a white Teddie and nothing else—” He bent low, checking under the body. “Probably put on her post-mortem. White bedcovers clean and smooth. No blood on female victim or bed. Appears to be a similar pose to previous female victims.”

He glanced back at Caroline. She was still staring at the remains of Wendy Tailor, biting furiously at her bottom lip. He figured once he started in on the man he had three minutes tops before she lost it.

Sucking down a breath, he walked back to the chair, forcing himself to confront the very darkest deed in the sick arsenal of man. “Male victim, nude, seated in a chair at the foot of the bed, to the right and facing it. No visible bruising, no restraints. The chair was probably brought up from the dining room,” he stated, recognizing the open ladder-back style. “Stabbed once in the back, on the left side looking from behind.”
Right in the heart
.

He paused and made a quick check of how Caroline was doing. Her face had turned five shades of green looking at the dead man, but she was valiantly struggling against her natural reaction. She'd dropped the black murder kit and folded her arms tightly over her chest, and was now busy biting her thumbnail to the quick.

Forty-five seconds, max.

He carefully stepped around the front of the chair. “Stomach slit medially, sternum to lower abdomen.” He slowly eased out a breath over the top of the tape recorder. “Lots of blood, lots of guts pouring out onto his lap.” Not terribly scientific, but it would do.

From the doorway he heard a low female curse, followed by a choking sound.
Damn
.

Caroline spun from the bloody carnage and stumbled in her ridiculous heels toward the stairs, clutching onto the banister as she tripped down them.

“All right, guys, it's your show.” Mick scooped up the black bag and followed in her wake. “I'll be back up in a bit.”

He vaulted to the bottom of the staircase, grabbed her arm and steered her toward the back of the house. With her hand pressed tightly to her mouth, she struggled mutely against both him and the nausea that must be threatening to explode.

He shoved her into a small powder room off the hall and kicked the door closed behind them. She doubled over the pedestal sink, but on the way downstairs he had managed to whip out a plastic trash bag from the kit and he now held it up for her as she hurled.

“That's right, let it all out,” he murmured softly as she puked her guts out. “Just hang onto my arms. Try not to touch anything else.”

He stood right up against her back, bracing her between his elbows and legs, holding the trash bag to her face. She clung tightly to his forearms purging herself of the sight upstairs. Unfortunately, he knew it would stick with her for the rest of her life. The first one always did, and this one was particularly brutal. He was amazed she'd held out as long as she had. No doubt, she'd do well in Homicide.

Gradually, the heaves slowed, and finally stopped altogether. She made to pull away, but he clamped his arms tighter around her so she couldn't move. She'd be a puddle on the floor if he let her go now.

“Relax. Lean against me for a minute. Until you get your legs back,” he said quietly. When he was certain she'd obey, he carefully set down the trash bag in the sink and, one-handed, fished a container of wet wipes out of the kit. “Here. These'll help.”

He yanked one out for himself and wiped off a layer of sweat from his forehead.

“Sorry,” she said in a shaky voice. “Oh, God, what a wuss.”

“Don't beat yourself up. At least you didn't do it all over the crime scene. The techs hate that.”

She made a feeble attempt at a chuckle. He figured he was on a roll. “Look, everybody pukes over their first dead body. Kind of a rite of passage.” He took off his gloves.

“Did you?” she asked, resting her head back against his shoulder as she peeled off hers.

He tossed them and the used wipes into the kitchen bag, then answered truthfully, “No.”

But then, dead bodies had been small potatoes for him by that time. It was the ones that were still alive that made his stomach turn.

She angled her face up and looked into his eyes. “No?”

“Hey, I'm the Iceman.”

Suddenly, he was having a hard time figuring out what to do with his hands. Pretty much anything he did here would land him in trouble.

He fished her out a small bottle of sports drink from the kit bag. “It's as warm as piss and probably tastes worse, but it clears the palate,” he said. “You want to spit?”

She nodded and he held up the bag for her.

“Yuck. You weren't kidding.” Nevertheless, she took a long pull on the chartreuse liquid.

Ripping another towelette from the container, he started dabbing at her sticky forehead. “Feel strong enough to turn around?”

“I think so.”

Toe to toe now, she drank and he continued to work on her face, feeling oddly comfortable with the close quarters and his intimate task. He tipped her chin up and wiped the menthol from her lip. Smoothing another towelette over her temples and cheeks, he was taken by the softness of her lustrous skin and the intriguing angles of her cheekbones. He’d noticed those cheekbones in the photos he’d—

“Say, leave me some make-up, would you, McGraw?” she chided when he disposed of a suspiciously rosy-colored towelette.

“You don't need it,” he said without thinking.
Aw, hell
. He straightened. “I mean—”

She tilted her head. “You don't like my hooker make-up?”

“Sure I do, but you look just fine without any at all.” She always wore it to work, but he recalled the time in the market when he’d watched her, hidden in the next isle...