See No Evil (11 page)

“If you can get the autopsy report and what they have that points to Emily, it might help in figuring out what’s going on,” Dillon said.

“I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

“Don’t do anything illegal.”

“I’ll do anything I have to for Emily.”

There was an awkward silence, and Connor finally said, “So Dil, what’s the verdict on the killer? We were talking about a profile, something to go on.”

Dillon looked at the closed file. Julia grew antsy the longer he remained silent. She glanced at Connor and found him looking at her. Staring at her, his dark eyes unreadable, his face hard and unyielding. But he didn’t look away, he didn’t have that edge of hatred she’d felt when she’d first talked to him this morning about helping Emily.

She turned away, picked up her mug, and drank. Still, his eyes were on her, his probing gaze unnerving. Anger and frustration, all rolled up in a tight, hard body.

Connor Kincaid might be a total jerk, but he was a damn sexy jerk. When they’d first met, she’d been a new deputy district attorney and had worked with him on a case that ended miserably. Two cops killed, one suspect dead, and one suspect beaten nearly to death. Connor resigned after testifying against the cop who took bribes, and two others had ended up facing prosecution for their crimes. It was a messy situation, but it wasn’t the police department’s responsibility to mete out justice. That was for the court system, the same system to which Julia had sworn allegiance.

But that case had disturbed Julia for a long time, and she’d quietly been pleased when the former district attorney had been forced from office in scandal and Andrew Stanton was elected to clean house three years ago.

She drank more beer and then caught herself biting her thumbnail. She put her hand down. Fidgeted.

Dammit, why was he looking at her so intently? What was he thinking? What were
they
thinking? Dillon Kincaid with his quiet, studious manner pondering the profile of a vicious murderer; Connor Kincaid, the younger brother, with his hard, dark eyes on her. Analyzing, probing, judging.

Five minutes later, Dillon spoke. It might as well have been five hours.

“The leader is the oldest and able to convince others of the rightness of what they’re doing. Completely in control, focused, methodical. A planner. Thinks about the details. Thinks ahead. Does not fear being caught. Might even enjoy the limelight of being caught. Enjoys irony. Plays on people’s emotions and is able to turn emotions on and off at will. Has little empathy for others.”

“You said he’s a teenager or young adult,” Connor said. “Are you thinking college student? Maybe underachiever—smart but not living up to his potential?”

“I never said ‘he.’”

“A teenage
girl
?” Julia asked in disbelief. “Andrew Stanton is not going to buy that.”

“I don’t know if I buy it,” Connor said. “You said yourself that the leaders in killing pairs are men.”

Dillon countered, “The leader could be male or female. Either way, this person was abused as a child by a male authority figure. It may or may not have been sexual abuse. Penile amputation—even if they were going off Emily’s fantasy of killing her stepfather—is still a sexual and incredibly personal crime. It would be difficult to accomplish such a gruesome murder without additional motivation.”

“But the other crime—Judson’s shooting—wasn’t sexual.”

“The eyes—it was Billy Thompson who said that Judson needed to get his eyes checked. But why did that draw out the killer or killers?”

“Maybe because the victim was easy to identify. Billy Thompson gave a personal connection to the victim, called him Jackass Judson, that maybe the other e-mails didn’t do.”

“Made it easy for them,” Julia said.

“We need to learn more about this group,” Dillon continued. “That’s the key. And I don’t think Dr. Bowen’s involvement is a coincidence. I’m going to play a little give-and-take with Patrick and see if I can get any other information if we give up what we know. Patrick needs to dig deeper online. I can almost guarantee that they have more than two murders under their belt.”

“You said the killers were young. Bowen must be in his forties,” Julia said.

“The leader himself may be young or not, but it’s definitely someone older than the others and in complete control. The killers themselves are under thirty. The leader’s the key. Without him—or her—these murders would never have happened.”

“Going through all the unsolved cases in the county will take hundreds of hours of manpower,” Connor said.

“I’m going to write up an informal profile for Chief Causey to give them a direction, but I don’t know if they’ll use it, considering they don’t have me on their team.”

“They’d be foolish not to,” Julia said, “but is this going to jeopardize Emily?”

Dillon shook his head. “The police need to look at every angle, and I’m sure that they will. But there are only a handful of psychiatrists who consult with the police department, myself and Bowen are among them. They need to know that they have to stay away from Bowen. I talked to him today. I didn’t like what he had to say.”

“How far back in the files do we need to look for similar crimes?” Connor asked.

“Eighteen months. Two years, to be on the safe side. They have a taste for killing, so they’re going to continue. They see themselves as meting out justice. Vengeance. They may have started with people identified on Wishlist, but they’ll find their victims in the newspaper, anywhere. They’ve gotten away with at least two murders; they feel invincible.”

“What else? Two years of unsolved crimes? That’s a lot of man-hours.”

“Look at unsolved violent crimes. Stabbings, shootings. Male victims. All ages.”

“I’ll do it. I have the time and I’m still a member of the bar, so I have access,” Julia said. “I’m on leave, remember?”

Connor caught her eye and for the first time Julia felt something like protection from his gaze. “Don’t do anything stupid, Julia. If this gets hairy, let me handle it.”

Spoken like a true Neanderthal.
Why had Julia even thought for one minute that Connor had changed?

“Come in, Cami.”

His dark eyes pierced her, held hers, drew her toward him like a bitch to her master. Her breath hitched as she glided over to him. He took her hand, kissed it. So elegant, so refined.

“Tell me everything. Again.”

She crawled into his lap and he stroked her hair. “Everything went exactly according to the plan.”

“I want details. Leave nothing out.”

“You were right about the judge.”

“I’m always right, Cami.”

“He protested at first, but not for long.”

“Sex addicts never do.”

“I turned his chair around so his back was to the door. I showed him my tits, and then I had him completely.”

“You have beautiful breasts, Cami.” He stroked them softly, then squeezed her nipples hard. Twisted them. It hurt but she pushed her breasts into his hand.

Pain meant she was alive.

“I got down on my knees and took out his cock. Sucked him long and hard. The others came in quietly. I slowly moved the chair into position and as he was about to come in my mouth, I pulled back and Faye cut off his erection.”

“How did she do?”

“She didn’t hesitate. Just one hard snap. The shears were really sharp.”

“You did good recruiting her.” He ran his hand up her skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties, as he ordered. She spread her legs to allow access. His fingers played with her and she grew hot.

“Who put his penis down his throat?”

“I did.”

“How did it feel?”

“Powerful. He was screaming when Faye cut it off. Blood shot everywhere.”

“You changed shoes like I told you?”

“Yes. We threw everything in garbage bags, got out fast. Just like you said. We all wore gloves. I didn’t touch anything until…after. We wiped down to be sure.”

“You’re not in the system.”

“No, but Faye—”

“She won’t talk if she gets caught, would she?”

Cami shook her head, enjoying his talented fingers, the line between pleasure and pain, the sensations that poured through her body, making colors brighter and sounds sharper. “Faye would never talk.” Her breath was rushed, rapid.

“Do we have a problem with Robbie?”

“No.”

He withdrew his hand.

“Please,” she begged.

“Tell the truth, Cami.”

“I don’t know. He was high today.”

“Take care of him.”

“I told Faye if he used again she would have to take care of him.”

A long silence. Then his hand returned between her legs. He shoved three fingers up her vagina while his thumb probed her anus and then he pinched hard. Her vision faded as the pain took over, every cell in her body alive and on fire.

“Good, Cami. Very good.”

“Thank. You.” Her breath was rushed as she spiraled higher, higher. Thoughts faded, all that mattered was being here, feeling the pain and pleasure, the need, the heat. She was not dead inside, no longer a hollow shell to be looked at, admired, envied. She was
real,
the pain proved it.

“The final execution will be Saturday. Are you ready?”

“Yesssss,”
she whispered.

He murmured in her ear.

“Release yourself to me.”

After Cami left, he tidied up his office. He was hard as a rock, but didn’t dare give himself over to Cami. He knew what drove her, what motivated her. She worshipped him, admired him, and he needed that to continue to control her.

He gave her the pain she craved, but not sex. Not with him. He could give her nothing of him. She manipulated everyone around her, everyone but him. Whether she thought she could was another matter, but he’d leave her to the boys and her fantasies. He gave her what she wanted and she always came back. He gave her lust and held back with the anticipation of more. Later, in the future, but that future would never come. He’d never fuck her. The thought sickened him.

Her desire for pain would be the death of Cami, but not by his hand. Not yet at any rate. He needed her. The victory and passion he saw in her bright eyes when she recalled her part in Victor Montgomery’s execution, that was the highlight of a successful operation.

Cami enjoyed it for the control, the power, the thrill.

He enjoyed it for different reasons, but for one. It was on his orders, his command, who would live and who would die. The thrill of the hunt, of marking the sinners, elated him, kept him focused. He would fix the world one death at a time.

He couldn’t fuck Cami, but he knew who would be waiting for him.

Faye Kessler had given him what he needed before, and he knew she hadn’t told Cami. Cami was a jealous, arrogant girl, she wouldn’t sit calmly on the sidelines if she knew he put his dick in Faye’s cunt when he wouldn’t do the same to her, no matter how much she asked or how much she was willing to do for him.

A woman with a closed mouth was a rarity, but one he would keep as long as it served him. Faye kept her mouth shut tight. He loved her for it…and for other reasons. There were things he could share with only her, because only she understood.

For a time, he’d worried about his attachment to Faye. After they were together, he was surprised to find himself missing her when they were apart. Her soulful eyes, her touch, her quiet understanding—he craved it. He didn’t mind wanting her, but he feared needing her.

These were thoughts for a later time. The game was still working perfectly, and he still had Cami and Faye completely under his thumb.

His girls would do anything for him.
Everything
for him.

And he didn’t have to bloody his hands in the process.

In less than forty-eight hours, the hammer would come crashing down on the one who had wronged him. He was truly a god.

TWELVE

J
ULIA WAS DRUNK.

If she hadn’t been leaning so heavily against him on the way out of Dillon’s house, Connor wouldn’t have believed anyone could get drunk on three beers.

“You’ll make sure she gets home safely and unmolested?” Dillon asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Very funny,” said Connor. “I don’t even like her. I’m not going to take advantage of her.”

“I knew you didn’t like me.” Julia pouted.

“Like that’s a big revelation,” Connor muttered.

“And I’m
not
drunk.” She hiccupped. “I just haven’t eaten.”

“Since when?” he asked as he slid her into the passenger seat of his truck. He and Dillon had eaten all the pizza he brought before Julia showed up.

“I don’t know.” She hiccupped again. “Yesterday, I think.”

“Great.” He slammed the passenger door shut. Now it made sense. Three beers, empty stomach. And now the counselor was his responsibility.

He should have asked Dillon to take her home.

He started up the engine of his truck. He lived only a few blocks from Dillon, but he wasn’t taking Julia to his house.

He glanced at the counselor. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t sleeping.

“Tell me the truth, Connor,” Julia said quietly, not opening her eyes. “Do you think Emily is guilty? Do you think she helped kill Victor?”

How could he answer that? He’d been a cop, cops looked not only at the evidence but used their experience and instincts to figure out who was lying and who was telling the truth. Leave the facts to scientists like Jim Gage; the truth was cops bartered lesser evils. So did prosecutors. That’s why the two professions were usually tight. They needed each other. A prosecutor may have a solid case, but they might turn free a drug addict in exchange for testimony to nail the coffin shut on a killer.

“You do,” she said when he didn’t answer right away. “Take me home.”

“You need to eat.”

“I have food. I think.”

“Julia, I don’t think Emily did it, but you need to face the fact that she may have played some role in the murder.”

A sob escaped her chest.
Don’t cry. Dammit, Julia, don’t cry. I can’t handle tears.

But she didn’t cry. Instead she said, “The last thing my brother said to me before he died was ‘Take care of Emily.’ I didn’t protect her, and she ended up being raped, running away from home, and possibly involved with a murder. I failed in the only thing I ever cared about: living up to my promise to Matt.”

Connor glanced over at Julia when he stopped at a light. He instantly regretted it. She was looking at him, her face a mask of torment, her eyes dry but full of pain. “Matt gave me the world. He gave me
freedom
to do what I wanted to do with my life. He became the perfect son so I wouldn’t have to be the perfect daughter. All he wanted, all he ever asked of me, was to take care of his daughter. And now…” She turned her head, looked out the window. “Emily is already going to pay the price of my incompetence for the rest of her life.”

“That’s alcohol talking,” Connor admonished.

“It’s the truth.”

Connor drove over to La Honda, a restaurant owned and operated by his mother’s best friend, Felicia, another escapee from Cuba. Though crowded, it helped being family friends. They were seated immediately.

Felicia, a small round woman, came over, hugged Connor, and smiled wide. “The usual?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’ve never brought a lady friend in before.” She beamed at Julia.

“We’re not friends,” Connor and Julia said simultaneously.

Felicia’s smile only widened as she left to fill their order, coming back immediately with two beers, chips, and salsa.

“It’s hot,” Connor warned.

“I love salsa,” Julia said, scooping a huge chunk onto a chip and popping it into her mouth.

Connor covered his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. As the heat from the habanero peppers reached Julia’s sinuses, her eyes watered, her nose began to run, and he could almost see sweat form on her brow. He had to give her credit for chewing and swallowing, before draining her water glass, and then his.

“I warned you,” he said.

“Next time, I’ll listen.”

They ate in silence, and Connor was surprised when the tension dissipated. Julia cleaned her plate, drank another beer, and lost the ghostly pallor she’d had since arriving at Dillon’s earlier in the evening.

They stared at each other in silence. Connor asked softly, “What happened with your brother? I heard he died in a car accident.”

She nodded, picked up her beer, and took a long swallow.

“Were you there?”

She nodded.

“And?”

Julia’s face contorted in pain and anger. “I was driving the car.” Softer, “I killed him.”

“You didn’t kill him.”

“I know that road like the back of my hand. Every bend and turn. It was my car, my road, and—”

Connor regretted bringing it up, but he couldn’t stop now. He didn’t
have
to know the truth; he
wanted
to know.

“It was raining and I skidded. Crashed into a tree.” Her voice was quiet, matter-of-fact, as if she were a witness on the stand. “I swerved, acting on instinct—self-preservation—and turned the car. The passenger side slammed into the tree trunk. We were going about forty. Matt—” her voice hitched, she took a deep breath, then said, “Matt was crushed. He died there, before the paramedics came. Before anyone came.”

Connor took her hand. It was soft yet firm, feminine yet strong. “It was an accident.”

Julia couldn’t believe she was telling Connor Kincaid, of all people, about the night Matt died. Her chest tightened—is this what a heart attack feels like? The pain was real, hot, twisting and climbing, taking over.

“He was my best friend,” she said quietly, not able to look at Connor. “My only friend.”

And it was true. She’d distanced herself from her family; and by doing that, she had also separated herself from the friends she’d grown up with. If she could call any of the wealthy families her parents allowed her to associate with her
friends.
Matt was her only true friend, her brother, her mentor, her savior in so many ways. When he was gone, she had only her work. And Emily.

“I’m sorry about your brother, but it was an accident.”

“So?”

“You weren’t drinking—if you were, you’d have been disbarred and probably imprisoned. It was raining, but I’ll bet if I went up to that road the posted speed limit would have been forty.”

Julia stared at Connor. She remembered five years ago when he was a hot-tempered cop stuck in the middle of an internal investigation he wanted no part of. He was still hot-blooded, but age—and experience—had calmed him.

Or had it? What did she really know about Connor Kincaid’s life since she told him his choice was testify or prison?

And for the first time in the last five years she wondered if she had made the right decision.

Connor had gone against orders and involved himself in the takedown of crooked cops he was ordered to stay away from. Not only that, but he broke more laws than Julia could count on both hands.

Laws must be upheld. They had to mean something. If they could be disregarded at any time, whatever the reason, wasn’t that the first step toward anarchy? The law grounded Julia, gave her strength and purpose. But Connor Kincaid was a good man, and maybe she should have looked more into giving him a second chance than laying down the rule of law and lecturing him on right and wrong.

Julia had broken no laws when Matt was killed, but she harbored more guilt than most criminals. She didn’t understand why her niece didn’t confide in her about the rape, but she did understand why Emily didn’t turn Victor in.

And for the first time, she began to understand the rocks Connor Kincaid had been wedged between when he broke the law for justice.

She was on the other side of the door. Connor hoped she wasn’t naked, that she had the sense to sleep in her clothes.

He had locked his door. Not that Julia Chandler would step foot into his bedroom, but it would make him pause long enough to unlock his door and think about what he would be doing if he touched her. Stop long enough to remember.

He still couldn’t believe he’d brought her into his house. He never brought women home. Of course, Julia wasn’t really “a woman,” someone he was dating or thinking of dating or sleeping with or thinking of sleeping with, or any other foolish thing like that. She was a district attorney and she’d hired him.

Yep, keep the facts firmly planted in mind. Don’t think about her long legs or big eyes or silky hair or the way her head fell against his shoulder when she drifted off to sleep in the truck. Don’t think about those lips and how much he wanted to kiss them. Don’t think about Julia naked and underneath his body asking him to make love to her.

Damn, he needed a shower. Cold.

Remember that she forced you to give up everything you believed in, everything you ever wanted to be.

How could he forget? She’d manipulated him into an internal affairs investigation he wanted no part of. He wasn’t going to turn on his own. He’d wanted to handle it his own way.

Two dead girls sealed his fate.

In the heat of the summer, Connor Kincaid had gone out on a call. He’d just taken his detective exam and was awaiting results, hoping to land in the gang resistance detail. He had hope for some of these kids. Not all of them, not most of them, but a few of them. That was all he needed. They were the consummate underdogs, kids whose fathers were dead or in prison and whose mothers worked two jobs or did drugs or plain didn’t care. Many of these kids were in foster care, a system so broke that it would have to be destroyed completely before it could be rebuilt. Connor learned early on that he had a knack for working with these kids. But for now he was a street cop, one of the best.

The call came from the San Diego Mission de Alcalá, the first mission in the California chain and an active Catholic parish and tourist attraction. But it was now five in the morning and he was coming off graveyard shift, first responder to the tragedy.

The dead girls were huddled together in a pew in a small chapel off the main church. They’d broken into the church instead of going to the hospital or to the resident pastor who lived in a small bungalow on the far side of the Mission. One look and Connor knew why they hadn’t sought medical care for their extensive injuries. They were illegals. They didn’t want to be sent home.

The young priest had a long face, made more homely and sad when looking at the girls. “This isn’t the first time.”

“Excuse me, Padre?”

“The young girls—they bring them over the border every day to sell their bodies for a chance at freedom. When they don’t perform, they are killed. Disposed of like garbage.” He looked at Connor, imploring him with eyes so blue they seemed heavenly even surrounded by death. “But you know of this, don’t you?”

“Me? I have nothing to do with this. I agree it’s—”

The priest shook his head. “Your kind. The police. If you look where you don’t want to look, you’ll see the truth.” Again, the priest stared at him and Connor, not a particularly religious man, felt for the first time that maybe someone with more authority than the priest was speaking to him.

“People believe what they want to believe. They see no evil because they don’t want to. But evil is out there, and this is the result.” The holy man gestured to the dead girls. “You might not see the evil, Officer Kincaid, but you can see its handiwork right here.”

Quietly, Connor kept tabs on the investigation of the girls’ deaths. Almost immediately they were put in the cold case file. Two illegal Jane Does. No one cared.

Connor couldn’t stop thinking that but for his birth in the land of opportunity, he and his brothers and sisters would be fighting to come to America. Or dying under Castro’s brutal regime like nearly everyone on his maternal family tree.

The dead girls were only fourteen. Beaten to death on the grounds of a sacred place, crawling inside to die in front of Jesus, the only sanctuary they had.

Then he learned that his mentor, Detective Wayne Crutcher, who had helped him with his exam and smoothed Connor’s path into his move from street cop to detective, had been taking bribes to look away.

Connor didn’t want to believe it.

“Who was that guy?” he asked Wayne. He’d been quietly following him for weeks, compiling evidence he didn’t know yet how he was going to use. But he saw the exchange. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Wayne had been surprised to see Connor, though he hid it well. “A snitch.”

“We pay snitches. They don’t pay us.”

As he said it, Connor realized he’d signed his death warrant. But he didn’t budge.

He pictured his little sister Lucy’s face superimposed on the dead girls. The dead girls deserved justice as much as anyone.

Wayne’s face hardened. “Walk away, Kincaid.”

Connor still didn’t know exactly what it was that set him off. If it was the hard smirk on Wayne’s face or the indifference in his bleak eyes. Connor struck him across the face. Once, twice, three times before the detective punched back.

The fight brought down Internal Affairs. Both Connor and Wayne clammed up and called in their union representatives. Connor’s direct supervisor, Lieutenant Todd, came to Connor at his house. “Crutcher has been transferred to the Northeast substation. He won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Transferred? That doesn’t solve the problem.”

“What do you suggest I do? Go to Internal Affairs and have them up my ass and yours? I’ve fixed the problem.”

In the end, Connor couldn’t walk away, even if he wanted to. Internal Affairs came to him. He turned over the documentation he’d compiled, thinking it would end there.

It didn’t.

Connor was no longer a cop because of Julia. And yet the sexy counselor slept on the other side of his door, and he stood here with a semi-hard-on and thoughts of taking her into his bed playing with his mind.

For the second time in as many days he took a cold shower.