Killer passion, p.9
Killer Passion, page 9
Alicia braced her hands on her knees, fighting for balance. His abrupt retreat had left her teetering. “Ask you what? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Ask me about my wife. You want to know about her, don’t you?”
Her voice rattled. “Yes, but—”
“All right, here it is. She was murdered, and I found her body. I knew she was dead the moment I saw her, but I tried to revive her anyway.”
“Oh, God.” Her skin paled. “I’m so—”
“Sorry? Sometimes I hate that goddamn word.”
She just stared at him, and he feared she might cry.
What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t Alicia’s fault, and now he was sorry that he’d snapped at her. He caught what was left of his breath, of his brutal stupidity. “Please, forgive me. I have no right to take this out on you.”
The kindness in her glowed like a halo, and he felt like even more of a bastard.
“There’s nothing to forgive you for, Griffin.”
Oh, yes, there was. He needed absolution for leaving his wife alone that weekend, but he wasn’t about to admit it aloud.
“Her name was Katherine,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “But she went by Katie. She was killed during a home invasion robbery. It was a random act of violence. The offenders didn’t know her or me. They weren’t aware that an agent lived there. They were a couple of tweakers, meth addicts getting antsy for their next score.” He inhaled a gust of sea air and continued. “I was out of town on a case, and Shauna was away at camp. Katie answered the door and two men forced their way inside. They knocked her unconscious, ransacked the house, then took everything they thought was of value, including the wedding ring she was wearing.” Another breath. More air. “When she started regaining consciousness, they bound and gagged her and put her in a walk-in closet. Then one of them panicked about leaving a witness and shot her. Just like that. He killed my wife.” One more pause. “He pleaded guilty after he was caught. Neither of them denied what they’d done to her.”
Alicia didn’t say anything. But what could she say? He’d barred her from another “I’m sorry.”
She fidgeted with her hands, a sign that she wanted to escape the situation she was in. This was making her as uncomfortable as it made him. But it didn’t take a behavioral analyst to figure that out. Anyone could’ve seen it, if anyone else had been around.
“It’s on the Internet,” he said.
“What?”
“The murder. If you Google my name, it’ll come up. There isn’t a lot of information. Mostly it’s newspaper articles from when it first happened. Most of the crime-scene details were withheld, so it wasn’t sensationalized. But it’s still out there that my wife was killed in a home invasion robbery.”
More fidgeting. “So you’ve been keeping a secret from me that isn’t really a secret?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t something I’d planned to discuss with you. I realize that it might seem as if I’m not handling my loss very well, but I’ve had plenty of grief counseling. I’ve talked about the murder at great length.”
But that was what he did best. He focused on death. It was the living part that was difficult for him. “It hasn’t affected my ability to do my job.”
She went philosophical, hitting much too close to the mark. “There’s more to a person than his or her job.”
“I know, but between my work and my daughter, there isn’t time for anything else.”
“You found time to be alone with me on a private island.” She made a wide gesture, as if showcasing the beach. “But it’s turning into a strange kind of paradise, isn’t it?” Her hands floated back to her lap. “I want to hold you. I want to show you how sorry I am for what happened to Katie, but I’m afraid you’ll reject my compassion.”
“Truthfully, I would. Now isn’t the time for me to be held.” If he let her get too close, if he allowed her to break through his defense mechanism, it would weaken him.
She gazed at the stretch of sand. “Now isn’t the time to build a castle, either.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.” He wasn’t in the mood to feign a fairy tale.
They both stood up and carried the supplies back to the SUV. But before they climbed into the vehicle, she said, “Will you at least comfort me, Griffin?”
Christ, he thought. There was no way out of this. She wasn’t being clever. Unbridled honesty was evident in her eyes.
He walked forward and wrapped her in his arms. She clung to him, and he knew he would remember, as well as regret, this moment for the rest of his life. She felt soft and insecure, vulnerable in a way he could barely describe. Had he made a mistake in taking her on a romantic getaway? Had he pushed the boundaries of their affair into another realm?
In some small way, he was taking comfort from her, too. And it hurt, damn it. It hurt more with each second that ticked by.
Griffin nuzzled Alicia’s hair, breathing her in like a wounded wolf. “This trip was supposed to be about sex.”
“I know.” She kept her cheek against his chest. “But I’m not feeling very sexual right now.” She lifted her head a fraction. “Are you?”
“No.” But he wished that he were. When they were in the throes of passion, the eroticism blocked his pain.
She remained in his arms, keeping her body close to his. Her heart, too. He could feel the emotion-laced beats.
The time they had left together was diminishing, and even after what he’d put her through today, he could tell that she didn’t want it to end.
But they both knew that their affair wasn’t destined to last, so he didn’t warn her about longing for more. He figured she’d already been warning herself, and she didn’t need to be cautioned by the know-it-all profiler.
So, as he held her a little tighter, he turned the caution on himself. Keeping her wasn’t an option. In less than two weeks, he was going to let Alicia Greco go.
And do his damnedest not to look back.
Returning to the mainland was surreal.
Alicia and Griffin entered their adjoining hotel rooms and unpacked their overnight bags. She glanced at her lover, but he seemed preoccupied.
“I’ve got a meeting with Inoke,” he said.
“Now?”
He nodded. “The memorial is tomorrow. I need to check on the final arrangements.”
The G-man was back, she thought. Of course, there was more to Griffin than being a government operative. He’d lost his wife to a murder. Although the subject hadn’t resurfaced, Katie Malone weighed heavily on Alicia’s mind.
He buttoned himself into a crisp white shirt and put a perfect knot in his slim black tie. His gun was holstered to his belt.
“I’ll see you later.” He came forward and gave her a quick peck.
To her, it was the type of kiss a work-bound husband would give his stay-at-home wife, and Alicia wondered if Griffin used to kiss Katie that way when he hurried out the door.
A second later, he appeared to realize what he’d done. Apparently it struck a déjà-vu vibe. He stalled and skimmed Alicia’s check, as if he had the sudden urge to stay. But he didn’t. He stepped back and left her alone, taking his briefcase and laptop with him.
She gazed at the empty surroundings. Maybe she should focus on her job, too. Maybe that would keep her mind off of Griffin…and his wife.
She leafed through her notes and examined the Secret Traveler checklist of the hotel’s activities and amenities. She’d lucked out when she’d received this assignment, being afforded ample time to rate the resort. Of course, finding bodies on the beach wasn’t lucking out. And neither was getting heartsick over the profiler.
Anxious to keep busy, she returned to the checklist and decided to visit the business center. The Siga Resort boasted about their high-speed Internet connection in their brochure, so she might as well test their claim.
And do what? a small voice inside her asked. Google Griffin’s name and read about his wife’s murder?
No, another voice responded. No. She would steer clear of that.
Determined to prove her professionalism, she walked to the hotel lobby and entered the business center. It offered twenty-four-hour service with four computer workstations, color printers, several copy machines, pens, paper, staplers and other office essentials.
She secured a workstation and sat down to surf the Net. But after she got online, she stalled. Her fingers itched to type Special Agent Griffin Malone in the subject search. But she didn’t do it.
In a frazzled instant, she typed The Sex on the Beach Killer instead.
Zoom. The high-speed connection lived up to the claim. Link after link appeared. Alicia started clicking on them, scanning the contents. The article in that day’s Fiji Times appeared, and she read it. The upcoming memorial was featured with pictures of Paxton and Veronica from their final modeling assignment, photos that had become part of their obituary rather than glossing the pages of a fashion magazine.
A few more clicks and she came across pictures of the other victims, the other couples the Sex on the Beach Killer had slashed.
For the next thirty to forty minutes, Alicia continued the search. She read articles that mentioned her own name, identifying her as the tourist who’d discovered Veronica and Paxton’s bodies. As for Griffin, his name appeared here and there, as did Inspector Inoke’s, both names attached to quotes from press release statements.
She knew that she should quit before she went too far, walk away from the Internet and focus on other aspects of the business center. But the urge to Google Griffin’s name by itself wrapped its ugly hands around her.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She typed in Special Agent Griffin Malone.
Zip. Zip. Zip.
The Sex on the Beach articles in which he’d been quoted appeared again, but she skipped past those.
She discovered that FBI profilers didn’t draw a lot of media attention, not unless they’d retired from the Bureau and had documented their careers in bestselling books or TV shows.
Griffin had been right. His wife’s murder hadn’t been sensationalized. She found the newspaper write-ups he’d told her about. The articles were factual, but with very little detail. Nowhere was it cited that the victim had been bound and gagged or crammed into a closet. Apparently the FBI had done a thorough job of keeping the crime scene under wraps.
All Alicia learned that she didn’t already know was that Katie Malone had been thirty-eight years old when she’d died. Alicia kept searching, hoping to come across a picture of Katie, but she didn’t find one.
She clicked on the final link—an old interview Griffin had granted the press. He talked about the men who’d shot his wife and commended the police for apprehending them so quickly. That was it. That was what he gave the media, and it seemed to satisfy them. The profiler was off the hook. His name hadn’t become synonymous with his wife’s murder. But a random home invasion robbery wasn’t shattering news, especially when the offenders were behind bars and the special agent was grounded enough to continue his job.
If they only knew how tortured he really was, she thought. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t care about his grief. The press was more interested in the psychopaths he profiled. Men like the Sex on the Beach Killer were the newsmakers. Griffin was just part of the law enforcement mix.
But not to Alicia. She moved the mouse to the X at the top right-hand corner and closed the display, getting off the Internet.
To her, he was so much more.
Alicia and Griffin didn’t make love that night. They slept beside each other in the same bed, but they barely talked, let alone touched and kissed. She didn’t tell him that she’d looked him up on the Internet, and he didn’t second-guess her. But his mind was elsewhere. He was preoccupied with the memorial.
In the morning, Alicia stressed over the public event.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked.
She nodded. They were already dressed and ready, but they weren’t attending the memorial together. In fact, Griffin wasn’t going at all. He and Inspector Inoke would be viewing the happenings from security monitors set up in another room at the hotel, where they would communicate with undercover officers at the beach. Alicia would be sporting an audio device so she could communicate with Griffin and Inspector Inoke, too. That way, she could alert them quickly if she saw the man from the disco.
When she’d volunteered to help, she hadn’t considered anything like this. She’d assumed that Griffin would be there with her in person. But she wasn’t about to back out of the deal.
“Don’t give any interviews to the press,” he said.
“I won’t.” The last thing she wanted to do was talk to reporters. “Do you think it’s going to be a circus?”
“It’ll be crowded, but we’re hoping for a calm turnout.” He studied her. “Are you ready to go?”
She nodded. She knew he meant to the other room for her audio device.
He moved closer. “One kiss before we head out?”
“Yes.” Please, yes. She needed to draw from his strength, to hold him close. She’d missed being intimate with him last night.
He slanted his mouth over hers, and she tasted the warmth of his lips. How in God’s name was she going to keep herself from falling in love with him?
Very cautiously, she thought.
When they drifted apart, she looked into his haunted blue eyes. Today, they were as vivid as a sapphire sea. “Don’t analyze me anymore, Griffin. Don’t second-guess what I’m thinking or feeling.”
He frowned. “All I did was kiss you.”
“I know. But sometimes you start delving into my mind. And I’d prefer to keep my emotions to myself.”
“Most of the time, you wear your emotions on your sleeve. But I’ll quit doing it.” He toyed with a strand of her hair. “You look pretty today.”
Smooth transition, she thought. He’d changed the subject without so much as a blink. “Thank you.” Because the memorial was on the beach and mourners had been encouraged to wear casual attire, she’d chosen a simple summer dress and sandals. Her hair—the object of his fascination—was long and loose and decorated with a seashell comb.
“Are Veronica’s and Paxton’s families going to be there?” she asked.
“No. They returned to the States to make their own arrangements. But some of Veronica’s and Paxton’s friends will be in attendance.”
“And a lot of strangers, too, I would imagine.”
He nodded. “That’s why this is being held publicly. To see what strangers show up.”
“Yes, of course.” The authorities were hoping to catch the killer on videotape, whoever he might be. Some of the undercover cops would be posing as cameramen so they could record the mourners.
Griffin escorted Alicia to a room at the end of their hotel block, and the moment they entered, her anxiety level kicked up a notch.
Inspector Inoke and various other cops were seated in front of monitors that were already active. Apparently the cameramen cops were in place and doing their jobs.
Alicia gazed at one of the screens. She could see the beach and the floral-draped structure that had been built for the memorial. It was a little bigger than the original cabana, with a pulpit in the center for the spiritual leaders who were scheduled to speak. For now, a row of uniformed policemen guarded it. The service was an hour away, but people had begun to gather on the sand.
“Anything?” Griffin asked Inoke.
The inspector shook his head. “No one who fits the profile.”
A female officer came forward, and Griffin introduced Alicia to her and moved out of the way. The other woman fiddled with the bodice of Alicia’s dress and fitted her with a concealed microphone. A tiny receiver for the inside of her ear canal came next. The lady cop explained how the device worked, and they tested it. The process was simple, like using an invisible Bluetooth.
“Now what?” Alicia asked Griffin.
“Just stay here until the time gets closer.”
She wanted him to kiss her again, but she knew he wouldn’t show her affection in front of the police.
So Alicia took a seat and waited to embark on the memorial, to recite prayers for the deceased and scan the faces of other attendees.
Anxious, she kept glancing at her watch. Of course that made her wait seem even longer. But as the minutes passed, more and more people gathered on the beach. She could see them on the monitor Griffin was viewing.
When he told her it was time for her to go, she was ready. She couldn’t take another moment of feeling out of place, of being with Griffin yet not being with him.
He walked her to the door, and they exchanged a few brief words. In this setting, he was all FBI.
Alicia ventured outside, took the stairs and headed toward the memorial site. Of course she wasn’t the only resort guest walking in that direction. The crowd was thickening. She tested her audio device once again, just to be sure, and it was working just fine.
A few minutes later, several off-duty hotel employees on their way to the service glanced her way and said, “Bula,” which meant hello in Fijian. She returned the greeting.
Alicia reached her destination and walked through the crowd, looking for the man from the disco, if he decided to make an appearance. The mourners were an eclectic mix, but Fiji was a multiracial, multicultured nation. Voices buzzed. She heard British, Australian and American accents, along with Fijian and Hindi sounds.
She noticed a tall, strikingly handsome man in loose-fitting shorts, a short-sleeve shirt and bare feet. He looked like a surfer. Or a model. She wondered if were a friend of Paxton’s, or maybe a former lover of Veronica’s.
There were a lot of attractive people. A stunning redhead in an ankle-length dress was fingering a rosary bead necklace. Beside her was a pretty blonde in a stylish straw hat and designer sunglasses.
Of course there were average folk, too—all walks of life. A recognizable reporter from an American news station glanced Alicia’s way, and she dodged out of sight, weaving into the middle of the pack, still searching for the possible killer. But she felt as if she were looking for a warped needle in a haystack.
