The Heart of a Killer Page 13

  They headed around the front once they determined there were no other points of entry. Once inside, Anna was methodical. She was a born leader, giving the uniforms--and Roman--directions on how to proceed. She didn't rush in, was in no hurry to scour Jeff's house for clues or to see if his place was in shambles. She took each room step by step in order to preserve any evidence they might find, and she kept control over everyone under her.

  She operated a lot like he did, with a cool head under pressure. It would be easy to want to know right away what had happened in Jeff's house, to need to know now if the killer had taken Jeff from there, if there had been a struggle.

  The living room was clean, and so was the kitchen.

  "Nothing in the sink or on the counters looks disturbed. Sink is clean. Wow, the counters are clean, too. This place is immaculate."

  "Man, Jeff was a neat freak. I didn't know that about him," Dante said.

  "Don't you remember how he'd put a napkin in his lap whenever you all would come to the shop for ice cream? You'd make fun of him."

  Dante squinted as he tried to remember, then his lips lifted. "You're right. And he'd clean the counter after we all ate. How could I forget that?"

  Anna smiled at the memory, then ached at the loss.

  "So if our suspect got in through this window it doesn't show," Anna said. "You'd think there would have been some cast-off dirt from his shoes."

  "He could have cleaned up," Roman said.

  She nodded.

  It was a one-story house, so they moved into the first bedroom.

  Nothing there.

  "I have blood here," Anna said, motioning with her flashlight in the hallway.

  "Possible drag marks with more blood," Roman noted.

  They followed the trail toward the door to the master bedroom. The door to the bedroom was open and Anna flipped on the light.

  "Here," she said.

  Dante peered over her shoulder. The room was a mess and it was obvious there'd been a struggle. The bed had shifted, marks on the hardwood floor showing where it had been pushed away from its normal spot. The bedside-table lamp was broken and there was blood on the floor next to the bed.

  Anna moved into the bathroom and switched on the light, careful of every step she took to avoid any contamination. The uniforms waited outside the bedroom. Roman did, too, on the phone requesting the ETA on the crime scene unit.

  Dante stayed in step with her, matching her every movement so they wouldn't contaminate the area.

  "Looks like it started in here."

  Dante nodded. "Mirror is broken. There's blood on the mirror and on the broken glass on the floor. Looks like the suspect was hiding in the shower. When Jeff walked in, the suspect came up behind him and shoved his head in the mirror."

  Anna grimaced. "Probably. Enough to disorient him but not knock him out."

  She followed the drops of blood back into the bedroom. "It continued in here. Jeff stumbled out of the bathroom--or maybe the suspect dragged him in here. There was a struggle and Jeff turned to face his attacker, who jumped him and they landed against the foot of the bed. That would explain the marks on the floor from the bed being pushed."

  "Jeff wasn't a small guy, so his attacker had to have some power to bring him down." Dante bent down and pointed to a spot at the foot of the bed. "More blood here."

  "Probably from his head injury. My guess is whoever did this was bigger than Jeff. He'd have to be to subdue him and carry him out of here."

  Dante stood. "Unless he used some kind of drug."

  Anna shifted her gaze from her notepad to Dante. "He could have started the beating here, knocked him unconscious."

  Dante shook his head. "I don't think so. Jeff might have been a smooth talker, but he was a tough son of a bitch, always had been. When we were kids and got into fights, he'd never give up and he was as tough as they came. We had to pull him off the other guy more than once."

  "That hadn't changed," Roman said, coming into the room. "He could still hold his own."

  Dante nodded. "Which means the killer would have to beat him pretty hard to knock him out. And then there's no guarantee your suspect would be able to keep him that way until he got him in the alley to finish the job. I don't think he'd want to risk Jeff waking up on the way to the alley. My money's on drugging him."

  She surveyed the bedroom. "You may have something. There's not enough blood here for the kind of a beating he sustained."

  "Which means he finished him off in the alley."

  "Right. Tox report will let us know if he was drugged and with what."

  She walked outside the bedroom, followed the drag mark trail. "It just stops abruptly."

  "He carried him," Dante said. "That's why the drag marks end here in the hall."

  She nodded. "Which means maybe our killer left some evidence on Jeff's body."

  "We can hope. It also means our killer isn't a small man, because Jeff was sturdy."

  They had something to go on now, a lead of some kind, which was more than they had before. Even a small step was progress. Dante wanted this guy bad. Two people he thought of as family were dead. It needed to end here.

  Crime scene technicians arrived and Anna and Dante moved out of the way to let them process the scene.

  "If we're lucky," she said to Dante and Roman as they stood outside, "some of that blood will be the suspect's."

  "We're never that lucky," Roman said.

  "You're right, but I can wish for it."

  Anna went to talk to the crime scene techs, leaving Dante outside with Roman.

  "You seem pretty interested in the case for a civilian," Roman said to him. "I mean, I know you and Jeff were brothers, just like we all were, but, man, you being here just muddies up the crime scene."

  "I'm not a civilian, Roman," Dante said, pulling out his FBI badge.

  Roman's eyes widened. "No shit?"

  "No shit. Sorry I didn't tell you before. I needed to keep it on the down low because of potential undercover situations."

  Roman nodded. "Understood. So you're on this case now?"

  He gave Roman a straightforward look. "How could I not be? First George, and now Jeff? I worked a little magic and asked to be assigned to the case."

  "Huh. How'd you do that?"

  "I have contacts in the state offices who requested FBI involvement."

  "Good to have friends in high places, I guess. You in the FBI. Christ, Dante. I never would have figured you for a government job."

  That was an understatement. "Me neither."

  "I'm glad you found something legit. I was worried about you, wondering what you'd really been doing all this time."

  Dante laid a hand on Roman's shoulder. "Now you can stop worrying. I'm doing just fine, and you have an extra hand to help work this case."

  "What does Anna think about you being in the FBI, and getting involved in the investigation?"

  Dante shrugged. "About what you'd expect she'd think about it."

  Roman laughed. "That's what I figured. She likes to work alone, thinks she can do it all herself. She's like a superhero, single-handedly saving the world one bad guy at a time. But on this one? She needs someone to watch over her. She needs us all to watch over her. I don't like this."

  "I don't, either."

  Hours later, Roman headed out along with the CSU team. Everything was wrapped up, yellow tape and a sign across Jeff's house marking it as a crime scene. Anna stayed behind to take a few more photographs, then packed up her kit in the trunk.

  "Where to now?" he asked Anna.

  She blew out a breath. "Home, I guess. I'll file a report when we head into the office tomorrow. Or later today. I'm beat and need a few hours' sleep."

  They headed back to Anna's house. Dante frowned when Anna pulled into her driveway.

  "You should leave your porch light on. Especially since you come home in the dark so often."

  "Yes, Dad," she said as she unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door.

>   "I'm not kidding," Dante said, moving in front of her as he stepped onto the porch. "You leave yourself vulnerable. Especially now. Remember what happened last time."

  "I see really well in the dark and I'd know if something was out of place," she said.

  "Still, it pays to be careful." Dante checked the front door.

  Nothing this time.

  "No flowers or love notes?"

  "None that I can see."

  She seemed disappointed, searched the porch. "Huh. That's interesting."

  She slid her key in the lock and opened the door, flipped on the lights and walked in, releasing the strap over her holster to lay her hand on the butt of her gun as she scouted the room. Dante searched the bedrooms, gun in hand while Anna took the kitchen. They had the house entirely searched, including the closets and crawl space in a matter of minutes.

  Dante slid his gun into his pants when they met in the living room. "Clear," he said.

  "Here, too," Anna said. "I'm also not stupid. I know there's a killer targeting all of us. I won't take any chances."

  He came up to her and brushed his knuckles over the soft skin of her cheek. "You look worn-out. You need a glass of wine, a hot shower and a good meal, not necessarily in that order."

  "I need to lie facedown on my bed and pass out."

  "You won't sleep well. I'll bet all those gears in your head are still spinning."

  She hated that he presumed to know her thoughts, her feelings. How could he when he'd been gone so long? She'd changed, dammit. "Maybe."

  "Go take a shower. I'll be right back. Lock the door behind me."

  "Then how will you get in?"

  He leveled a devastatingly sexy smile on her that made her feel anything but tired. "Give me your keys."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To get food."

  Her stomach growled, betraying the statement she was about to utter about not being hungry. "Fine."

  "Go shower." He grabbed her keys and she locked the door behind him, headed into the bathroom and turned on the hot, steamy water. Only then did she let the reality of the night intrude on the walls she'd so carefully constructed around her world.

  Jeff was dead. Same as George. Both killed in the same manner as Tony Maclin all those years ago. Both of them carved with a heart just like hers.

  Now she had two bodies in the same location. And that night twelve years ago still remained a secret. She couldn't use it as background because she'd never reported it. If she reported it now, it would ruin Dante's, Gabe's, Roman's and even Jeff's lives, not to mention her father's.

  Shit.

  She stepped under the water and let it pour over her head, wishing she could just disappear, forget all this was happening. She wanted it to go away, didn't want to deal with it.

  And Jeff was dead. Dammit, Jeff was dead.

  The full force of that reality finally slammed into her.

  The sob tore from her throat and she couldn't do anything to hold it back. She shoved the heels of her hands against her eyes to try to stop it, but she couldn't. Instead, she slid down the shower wall and sat on her heels, crying buckets for Jeff, releasing the pain she'd been holding back since she'd discovered the bloody, beaten body in the alley was her friend.

  "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

  When she'd let out all she had in her, she was drained, exhausted. She opened her eyes and climbed to a standing position, her legs shaking. She laid her hands against the wall and just breathed for a minute, then grabbed the shower gel and poured some in her hands, soaped her body and rinsed.

  Dante would be back soon. She needed to finish up and the water was getting cold. She rinsed her hair and wrung it out, then turned the shower off.

  That's when she glanced down at her scar and saw blood.

  Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.

  You're imagining it. It's not there.

  She knew that. She looked down again, certain it would be gone, a figment of her overtired, overstressed imagination. But a thin river of blood traced around the scar, started to run down her breast, then her belly and legs.

  No. It's wasn't there. She rubbed at it, but blood kept coming.

  Her breathing quickened and the familiar clawing sensation choked off her throat.

  No. Oh, God, no. Not now.

  She pushed open the shower door and fought to focus.

  The towel. She had to find the towel. And breathe. Breathe, Anna, breathe.

  She did. Faster and faster. She was bleeding, she had to get help, now.

  Someone help me, please. He's going to hurt me.

  She stumbled out of the shower, tripping over the bottom edge and falling to the tile floor.

  And that's when she saw it, all over the floor. More blood, rivers of it, all around her, pouring from the cut on her chest. She pressed the towel there.

  "Stop bleeding. Son of a bitch, stop bleeding."

  And through it all, her throat closed as if someone had put his hands around her neck and had begun to squeeze. She fought for every breath, sucking in air as if each inhale was the last one. Panting, she tried to get up, but she was nauseous, dizzy, soaked with sweat. And the tile was cool. She was so hot. "Help...me."

  She couldn't breathe. She was bleeding. He was going to kill her.

  The blood continued to surround her. She was going to drown in it.

  Dante put the takeout on the kitchen counter, surprised Anna wasn't out of the shower yet.

  Then again, she deserved a long, hot shower after tonight. She looked a wreck and he knew damn well how much Jeff's death affected her, despite her attempts at maintaining a cool, professional resolve.

  He went to the bathroom door and listened. No shower running, so he knocked.

  "Anna? I'm back with food."

  And that's when he heard the shuffling and a faint whisper.

  "Help me."

  He turned the knob. Door wasn't locked. He pushed it open. She was lying on the floor naked, curled up in a ball, the towel clenched in a death grip around her, her breath sawing in and out.

  She was drenched and shaking.

  He bent over her and touched her skin. It was cold. "Anna."

  She flinched when he touched her. Fuck, she was so pale.

  She lifted trembling hands to his. "Blood."

  Aw, shit. He'd seen enough post-traumatic stress disorder in the field to know a panic attack, and she was in the throes of a big one. "Honey, there's no blood on you."

  He picked her up, despite her attempts to fight him off. He put the lid of the toilet down and sat her on it, then shoved her head between her knees. "Breathe, Anna. Slow and easy."

  She ignored him at first, her arms flailing as her instinct to fight was strong. But he kept her head shoved down between her knees and kept his voice calm. "You know what to do. Breathe slow. You're hyperventilating."

  In the meantime he grabbed a washcloth and ran it under cold water in the sink, didn't bother to wring it out, just slapped it on the back of her neck. After a few minutes she stopped shaking. A few minutes more and her breathing began to slow down. He swept the washcloth down her back, then over her face.

  Finally, she seemed calm enough, so he let go of her neck. She raised her head a fraction, but braced her hands on her knees.

  "Better?"

  She was shivering. "Cold now."

  He grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door and laid it over her. She slid her arms through it and wrapped it around herself.

  "Need a drink of water."

  "Okay." He found disposable cups by the sink, so he filled one and handed it to her. No way was he leaving her alone.

  "Sip," he instructed.

  "I know."

  Her voice was clipped. Angry. She was embarrassed. He understood that, but she'd have to deal with it.

  She took several sips, breathed a little, then a few more sips until the cup was empty.

  She shoved her hair away from her face and blew out a hard breath
. She still looked pale, but not as bad as she had when he'd walked in.

  "Think you can stand now?"

  "Yeah." She reached for the sink, but instead he helped pull her up, then slid his arm around her waist.

  "I want to get dressed, comb my hair. I'm okay."

  He could let her go now. "Holler if you need me. I'll be in the kitchen."

  "I'll be out in a minute."

  He shut the door, then leaned against the wall, listening to the sounds she made. Normal sounds.

  Only then did he exhale and calm his own breathing.

  Jesus. She'd scared the shit out of him.

  Yeah, she'd hidden it well, but the trauma Anna suffered twelve years ago had stayed with her.

  And the guilt churned within him.

  He pushed off the wall and headed into the kitchen, warmed the Chinese food in the microwave and spread it out on plates. Anna finally surfaced. She'd put on shorts and a tank top and had combed her wet hair. Her face had lost that deathly pallor and she seemed steady enough now.

  She hadn't been the only one shaking in there.

  "Take a seat."

  "Making yourself at home in my kitchen?" she asked as she slid into one of the chairs at the table.

  "As a matter of fact, I am." He put a plate and a soda from the fridge in front of her.

  "How long have you had panic attacks?"

  She lifted her gaze to his, a hot bite of anger in her eyes.

  He held her gaze. He wasn't going to let this go, and she knew it.

  "Twelve years."

  That didn't surprise him. "You take medication?"

  She shook her head and pushed her plate to the side. "No. No drugs. Therapist tried to shove those on me. I tried them but they made me fuzzy. I hated not being clearheaded."

  "So how do you deal with the attacks?"

  She laughed and took a long swallow of soda, then dabbed at her lips with the napkin. "Obviously, not well."

  "They often come with hallucinations?"

  She inhaled slowly, then dragged it out. "Rarely. At first, yeah, but hardly at all anymore. Tonight was a bad one. Sorry."

  They ate for a while in silence. He was hungry, so he devoured most of his, while she picked at hers and slid the food around with her fork. But at least she ate some.

  "You don't have to apologize to me, Anna. You went through hell twelve years ago. Everyone deals with trauma in different ways."

  "Obviously I haven't dealt with it."

  "This case dredged it all up again, didn't it?"