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Resolved, I pick up the office phone and hit a special speed dial number. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail. I dial it again. On the fifth ring it’s answered. The voice on the other end isn’t thrilled this number is blowing up his phone.
“I thought we settled up,” Captain Wexler says. “I don’t owe—”
“This isn’t Julian,” I interrupt. I don’t care to know about my brother’s personal dealings with the police captain; I just need his connections. “I’m running The Lair now, so whatever deal you had with Julian, you now have with me.”
Holding up Wexler’s member file, I scan his interests and hobbies. The things I’m sure his wife and kids would loathe just as much as his department if they discovered them. Not that I’d ever out the guy, but fear is a powerful motivator for most people.
A deep exhale sounds through the earpiece. “How can I help you?”
I smile. “I need copies of everything you have on the recent serial killings. Specifically, the whole profile. The pertinent parts that haven’t gone public.”
A deep boom of laughter, then, “Are you serious.”
“Deadly.”
There’s a long pause on his end before he replies. “That can’t happen. Do you know what a major leak in the department would do? I don’t care how you threaten me; you can tell the world I”—his voice lowers—“like to wear women’s clothing and be spanked by a Domme. I don’t give a shit. I can’t just hand over sensitive information on victims and confidential case material to you.”
I stand and march over to the door to close it. “It’s my understanding that there’s already a leak in your department. One profiler in particular has been stalked by the killer, and from what I’ve heard, you’re doing nothing to protect her.”
“How do you…?” Another pause. “Shit. I can give you early access to what’s going to the media at the end of the week. That’s it. The best I can do.”
“You know where to send it,” I say, then end the call. I slam the portable phone down on the desk. Sit back in the chair. Look down at the stack of folders. It’s going to take fucking forever to compare that information to every member.
Time Sadie may not have.
Fuck.
The tension building in my neck reminds me I’ve had no release for the past week. The unexpected visit from her didn’t help. I can still taste her on my lips, feel her slick, hot flesh all over me. My dick throbs just thinking about our moment in the hallway. I could’ve carried her off to my room and spent hours…
I shut down that train of thought, or else I’ll be tempted to go find her. Right now.
But if I did—just blow off every impending fear I’m bottling up to be near her—at least I wouldn’t be sitting here, waiting. Wondering. Imagining her out there with some fucking psychopath stalking her. I should’ve kicked that asshole detective out of the club and tied her little, stubborn ass up.
I reach into my pocket, groaning as I nudge my hard cock aside to grab my rope. Running the course length over my palm, I close my eyes, feel and taste Sadie. Just for a moment to stave off the cruel sting of patience.
It’s a virtue I have very little of right now.
Tether
Sadie
The marshy river smell floats over the crime scene on a delicate breeze. My gloves stick to my palms and fingers, the humidity not yet ready to yield to fall. As I step directly behind Quinn, my Tyvek-covered feet half the size of his footprints, I study the shoe impressions filled with white plaster in the mud.
“CSU has already started on casting shoeprints,” Quinn says. “They’re only making molds of the freshest tracks. It might help, since the crime scene confirms the vic was murdered somewhere else and brought to the river.”
As we near the taped-off area, he directs one of his unis. “Handle her delicately. I want a detailed tape-lifting procedure. She may have evidence on her from the kill site. Every fiber, every hair, every grain of sand or dirt…bag it and tag it.”
“Who reported the body?” I ask¸ coming to a halt behind him.
When my eyes discern the naked woman among the river grass to our right, I exhale a long breath. Her flesh is so battered she’s nearly the same shade as the dirt and marsh concealing her.
Pointing to an older man just off the bank talking to uniforms, Quinn says, “Just a guy out looking to throw his pole into the water.” He faces me, a grimace tugging at his worn features. “She was dropped here recently. If he hadn’t found her when he did, she would’ve been fish bait when the tide came in.”
Which makes no sense if someone wanted to hide the body. You don’t leave it on a riverbank, in the middle of the day, with cars traveling above and likely fishermen visiting a well-known fishing spot and high tide just hours away.
Unless the perpetrator got scared and tried to dispose of the body quickly. An amateur making a major rookie mistake, or a freaked out lover. Which denotes a crime of passion—but by the faded look of some of her contusions, she was tortured for hours if not days. This was not a spur of the moment m
urder.
