Naked Truth (Crimson Romance) (16 page)

Jack grinned as he slipped under the comforter. “I like the way you think, babe.”

Kennedy loved the way he felt lying on top of her. Even with clothing as a barrier between them, she could feel the contours of his muscles, the way they bunched as he lowered himself and captured her mouth with his own. She especially loved the feel of one particular muscle pressing against her abdomen. She widened her legs and wiggled until she was high enough on the bed so that muscle pressed between her thighs instead.

“Oh yeah,” he murmured as he rolled his hips, sending shivers of pleasure through both of them. “I missed you,” he whispered against her skin as he kissed a trail along her cheek to her ear, where he teased her lobe with his teeth and tongue.

She choked out a strangled laugh. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since we last saw one another,” she pointed out as her back arched when Jack’s tongue found its way to her cleavage.

“Yeah, but we argued, and I don’t like arguing with you.”

“Oh,” she said, all sorts of emotions swamping her senses. Happiness. Hope. Delirium. Pleasure. Lust. Love.

Yikes!

He didn’t give her time to dwell on that particular, frightening thought. His mouth moved slightly to the right, and he suckled her nipple through the thin fabric of her camisole, causing Kennedy to cry out with pleasure.

“Jack,” she wheezed. “I need … I want … I …”

And that was when her entire world came crashing down around her, in the form of her apparently not-quite-ex-husband storming through the bedroom door.

“Get off my wife!” he shouted as he took two steps into the room and then started shaking his fist.

Jack leapt off her as if Jerry had taken a shot at him. “Your what?” he demanded as he sat up on the bed and glared at the intruder. Kennedy noticed that Jerry looked faintly frightened, and he wasn’t advancing any farther into the room.

“I thought you said there wasn’t anyone else here?” she accused Jack as she tugged the comforter up over her chest to hide her very pebbled and aching nipples.

Jack gave her a bewildered look. “What the hell are you talking about? This is the guy Vanessa brought home last night … isn’t it?”

She saw the emotions fly across his face. She saw the suspicion, and then the comprehension dawning. Normally, she was attracted to his sharp, analytical mind. Today, she wished he were not quite so brilliant.

“Jack, it isn’t what it looks like,” she blustered, her eyes pleading with him to understand.

“What the hell do you think it looks like?” he demanded as he climbed off the bed and took a couple of steps away, apparently needing to put distance between them. Jerry backed up—probably afraid to get too close to Jack—and backed into Vanessa, who was suddenly looming in the bedroom doorway, looking grumpy and sleep-tousled.

“Why is there so much noise so early in the morning?” she complained as she yawned. She glanced at Jerry, and then did a double take.

“Jerry?” Vanessa exclaimed. “Jerry Coster?” Her head whipped around to stare at Kennedy. “What in the world is your ex-husband doing in your bedroom?”

“Not ex,” Jerry said, sounding far too cheerful. “Good morning, Vanessa. You’re looking lovely as always.”

“I look like I just rolled out of bed and have a hangover,” her cousin snapped. “What do you mean, not ex? I thought you dumped this loser three years ago, Kennedy. He cheated on you, for crying out loud.”

“Hey, I never—” Thankfully, Jack cut him off before Jerry could say something that would make a terrible situation even worse. It was bad enough she had to figure out how to explain that her ex had apparently never signed the divorce papers. To admit he hadn’t cheated on her, when she’d been weaving that same yarn for three years now …

“I think I need clarification on the ex concept,” Jack said. His voice was barely above a snarl. His eyes were on Kennedy, boring into her as if he could make her talk by sheer force of will. She knew he wanted to hear one particular thing, but unfortunately she couldn’t lie to him.

She waved her hand in Jerry’s direction. “I guess we’re still married.”

“I’ve widened the search on the wig purchase,” Cullen said. “Every town in which Danny’s show has stopped since the murders started, plus the town right before, just in case.”

Jack said nothing, just continued to stare at the images shifting and moving on the screen in front of the wall.

“The necklace is a dead end. Three different jewelers confirmed that it’s at least ten years old, maybe more. And it was a mass-produced piece. I think the wig is the best line we have right now.”

Still, he did not respond.

“Now that our cover’s blown, I went ahead and sent agents out to interview the dancers. We’re also working on identifying each club-goer on the security tape, so we can start bringing them in for interviews, too. Something’s got to give now.”

Jack lifted a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee, took a sip, grimaced, and replaced it on the table.

“Kennedy’s pregnant.”

That jerked him out of his stupor. “What?” he asked, staring at Cullen. Jack had been operating in a fog these past few hours. A result of lack of sleep and his emotions running far too high.

Married. Kennedy was still married. He knew she had an ex-husband, although he’d been under the impression that it had been just that: an ex. But after he’d stormed out of her house and gone straight to the office to run her through the FBI system, he saw it, right there in black and white on the computer screen.

Technically, she was still Mrs. Jerry Coster. While she’d filed for divorce three years ago, her husband had never responded, and she’d either not realized or simply hadn’t cared. Who the hell knew what she was thinking? Certainly not Jack.

He was clueless. He’d actually thought she might possibly be interested in him, for more than just a good time. For … for what? What had he been hoping for?

Did it really matter? He couldn’t have it, that was for damn sure. The woman was married to another man. Jack didn’t do married women. He may have precious few morals when it came to women, but that was definitely one of them.

Especially a married woman from whom he wanted … more.

“What the hell’s going on, Jack?” Cullen demanded. “You’re a goddamn zombie right now.”

“I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours,” he muttered.

“Bullshit. That’s not the problem. Temporary lack of sleep comes with the job. What the fuck is going on?” Cullen repeated, sounding not unlike Jack’s father when Jack had screwed up as a teen and had been reluctant to admit to it.

He raked his hand through his disheveled hair and pushed out of the creaky office chair to pace over to the window. He stared down at the tourists mingled with locals who hurried along the sidewalk below, racing against the threat of impending rain. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, the wind had kicked up, and the promise of a torrential rainfall was heavy in the thick, muggy air.

“She’s married,” he finally admitted, the words torn from his lips. It was almost painful to say them out loud.

Cullen looked completely baffled. “Who? Our perp? Are you that certain it’s a female?”

He shook his head. “Kennedy. She’s still married. They never got a divorce.”

“So—Oh. Oh shit.”

“Yeah. Oh shit. The first time I fall for someone, and she’s fucking married.”

“Sabrina never told me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Sabrina doesn’t know. Goddamn it,” he swore and whirled around to glare at the scenes from last night that were still playing across the screen hanging from the ceiling. Something caught his attention, and he stood stock still, staring for several seconds.

“Wait a minute,” he said, and he all but dove for the laptop computer attached to the projector. He pressed a few buttons, rewound the video, and then he froze the image.

“That woman,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Does she look familiar to you?”

Cullen studied the frozen, grainy footage. “Maybe,” he admitted. He walked closer to the wall, continued to study the image. “What are you seeing?”

“The hotel. Where Ranger was killed.”

“The housekeeper. The one who was so freaked about cleaning the room. So she likes to go to strip shows. I don’t know if you noticed, but there are a lot more old ladies at those shows than makes me comfortable, frankly.”

Jack was only half listening. He was focused on the laptop, pulling up the security video from the night before last, searching for something … “There,” he announced triumphantly. He froze the video and pointed at the screen hanging from the ceiling. “It’s her.”

Cullen cocked his head and studied the image. “Hair’s different,” he remarked. “A wig?” He shifted his eyes shifted, caught Jack’s and held.

The woman on the screen was older, probably in her fifties, maybe sixty. In this particular shot, her hair was short, dark, and wavy. Her makeup was simple, although she’d lined her lips outside the lip line. She wore a simple, flowered sundress and low-heeled sandals, and carried a brown handbag.

“Check out the night before,” Cullen demanded.

Jack immediately complied. For the moment, his love life—or lack thereof—was forgotten, as he honed in on the case. Anticipation thrummed through his system, working better than the strong chicory coffee that cooled in the Styrofoam cup at his elbow.

“Holy hell,” Cullen said an hour later. “It’s the same damn woman. She must have a dozen wigs.” He pulled the computer away from Jack and tapped the keys, pulling up the FBI database and instigating a search.

“Let’s see if she pops.”

She did, but not because she had a criminal past.

“Marie Maloney,” Cullen read from the computer screen. “Fifty-one years old. Never married, although she had a daughter at age twenty-four. Get this,” he said, the excitement clear in his voice. “The father’s type of employment? Exotic dancer.”

Jack whistled. “No shit. Did he do her and dump her, and then refuse to own up when she told him she was pregnant?” he mused.

“Sounds like a strong possibility to me. It gets better. The father of her child died under suspicious circumstances when the child was two. Marie was questioned and cleared. Death was determined to be a result of a home break-in gone bad.”

“How’d he die?”

“Multiple stab wounds to the back.”

“That’s a whole lot of coincidence.”

“The coincidences just keep coming,” Cullen said grimly. “The daughter died at age twenty-five. Just about two years ago.”

“Cause of death?” Jack prompted, getting into the rhythm they’d shared for ten years now.

“Knife wounds. All to the abdomen.” Cullen’s face was grim when he turned the laptop so he could see the picture on the screen. It was of a dark-haired woman, lying in a bathtub filled with red liquid. There were blood splatters on the tile, the shower curtain. Her lifeless body was floating in the water, one hand hanging over the side of the tub.

“She was in the tub,” he said. “And she was pregnant.”

“Son of a—”

“Yeah. Time to call Danny Diamond.”

“What was her name, Danny?”

It took them two hours to get Danny to FBI headquarters so they could question him. The warrant for Marie Maloney had already been issued. They had enough evidence even without questioning him. This conversation would simply seal the deal nice and tight, as perfectly as a murder rampage could be closed down, at any rate.

An agent from the Oklahoma regional office was on his way to Marie’s home in a suburb of Tulsa, although Jack doubted he would find anyone there. He was convinced Marie was still right there in New Orleans, planning her next attack.

They’d already checked with the hotel where Marie had pretended to be a housekeeper. They had hired her through a temporary service, and, not surprisingly, the information she’d given the agency had turned out to be phony. Jack and his partner didn’t know where she was holed up in New Orleans, but they were both anticipating going to the club that evening and apprehending the killer before she could cause any more harm.

“Shannon,” Danny said. He sounded confused. “Shannon Maloney. It was a suicide, guys. I found her. I didn’t kill her.”

“Sounds like someone thought you did at one point.”

“Of course they did,” Danny snapped. “Local cops get a call from the owner of a male stripper revue telling them his twenty-five-year-old pregnant girlfriend’s dead in the bathtub, what do you think they’re going to assume?”

“But you were cleared.”

“Three hundred people vouched for the fact I was at a club, managing my show, during the time of death. I didn’t do it. I loved her. I wanted to marry her. I told you, I was willing to give it all up for her, to become some stupid working stiff at a normal job to make her happy. Well, to make her mother happy, anyway. Shannon didn’t care that I managed a bunch of strippers or that I used to be one myself. I’m telling you, I didn’t do it.”

He knew Danny was telling the truth. If not from reading the file on Shannon’s death, then from his voice, his eyes, and his face when he insisted he loved the woman. For the first time in his life, Jack understood a bit of what Danny was feeling. Because he could relate, he finally relented on the hard cop routine. “We know you didn’t. But we do think her murder is connected to your dancers’ murders. And her own father’s, actually.”

Danny looked confused. He shook his head. “She wasn’t murdered. They determined it was suicide. She was home alone at the time. I had a solid alibi, and she didn’t really have any other friends. The only other person she was close to was her mother, and that woman treated her like a frigging princess. Her dad died when she was two. Shannon didn’t even remember him. She killed herself because she was so distraught over being pregnant and my lifestyle; because she knew her mother would be upset.”

“So you think she hadn’t told her mother about the baby yet?” Cullen asked.

Danny shrugged. “I didn’t think so at the time, but I guess actually she did know. The only time I ever saw her mother was at Shannon’s funeral, and she was a mess, howling, crying, and carrying on. I felt bad for her, but when I tried to approach her, she was so angry that I ended up walking away. I do remember her talking about the baby, though. She accused me of killing her first grandchild.” Jack shot Cullen the look that said, “Don’t tip our hand just yet.”