Authors: Lynde Lakes

Set Up For Love

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

ISBN:
978-1-77130-030-8

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: Marie Medina

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To my never to be forgotten deceased friends, Patricia Oliver, Best-Selling Regency writer, Sandy Parsons, Political genius, Betty McGee, Fantastic tap dancer, Ms X, undercover FBI agent.

And to those who worked diligently to bring this intriguing novel to my wonderful and faithful readers: My publisher Stacey Adderley--EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING, my editor Marie Medina , my cover artist Sour Cherry Designs, & the acquisitions manager Marie Buttineau
.

And as always, to my husband for his loving support and encouragement.

SET UP FOR LOVE

Lynde Lakes

Prologue

1987. A chilly, breezy San Francisco.

The room was dark and soundless except for his ragged breathing. A circle of lamplight fell over the kitchen table like the devil’s searing glare, highlighting the bloody path to hell. With a forceful downward thrust, he buried the blade of the butcher knife in the wood surface, scarred from old stab gouges. He wrenched his fingers away from the Elkhorn handle. He refused to allow the eight inches of stainless steel to master him again tonight. The broad blade caught glints of blue reflections. The gleaming evilness lured him like a lover. His gut churned. He lusted to grasp the handle again. It always felt smooth and balanced in his grip.

A girlie magazine lay spotlighted on the table in front of him. The blonde temptress crouched on the cover like a tiger ready to spring. She wore only enough yellow and black striped fur against her milky flesh to entice.

He tried not to look at the knife. Its shadow fell across the slick cover and the barely clothed tigress. He imagined the metallic smell of blood, imagined it splattering the walls with vivid red. He moaned and pounded the table with his fists. Then his hand opened and closed again around the knife’s handle. He yanked the blade free and slashed and stabbed at the vivacious vixen on the magazine cover. His fury heightened with each jab as the knife thudded into the hard wood beneath the shredding pages. Slivers of paper flew around him. In seconds, he’d reduced the magazine to confetti.

His heart pounded and short gasps of breath burned his lungs. The knife had won again. It was her fault—the girl on the cover. The she-devil was beautiful. He could not forgive her for that.

Chapter One

The heavy studio door slammed behind Dane like the brutal blow of a wrecking ball. He froze. Charmaine lay at his feet in a pool of blood, naked, a gaping wound in her throat. “Sweet Jesus, not Charmaine, too.” Shock and guilt rushed through him, and he grasped one of the light poles to steady himself.

The Snuff Video Killer, or perhaps a cameraman partner in the hideous underground business, had aimed the cameras at Charmaine. Jet-black hair and bright red lipstick contrasted with her ashen face. Over the hammering of Dane’s rapidly beating heart, he heard the low hum of the air-conditioning. It stirred the air, heavy with the odor of set-paint and another odor he knew too well—the stench of death.

He fought nausea as he kneeled beside Charmaine, lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse.
Please, let there be at least a weak throb
. He felt nothing. Even in shock, as a reporter who’d covered many murder scenes, he’d known not to touch the bloody pulse-point at her neck. “Char, who did this to you?” His voice broke and he sucked in a ragged breath. It was all he could do to keep from gathering her into his arms. He seized a nearby draping cloth and gently drew it over her nakedness. An aching guttural moan escaped his throat. She was only nineteen, a lively, scatterbrained model-actress hopeful, full of dreams. Why couldn’t he ever be there when someone needed him?

Dane felt again for a pulse. Still nothing. He’d heard of people hanging on with a heartbeat so faint it was imperceptible. Just maybe—

He snatched up the telephone. The line was dead. He felt for his cell phone. Damn, he must’ve left it in the car. He had to get help.

He yanked the entry door open and charged into a bank of leveled guns. A husky storm- trooper with FBI on his shirt shoved him back into the studio. “What’s the hurry, Mac?”

Dane winced as a gun barrel jabbed into his neck. He raised his hands high above his head. “I’m unarmed.” Sweat broke out on his brow. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

The Fed didn’t lower the gun. His men stormed in. With guns ready, they kicked the interior doors open as though they didn’t expect him to be alone.

“I’m glad you’re here. The killer slashed her throat.” Panic and waves of shock and grief muddled his thinking, but he had to straighten things out with these guys.

The Fed decreased the pressure of the barrel enough to allow Damon to believe he was making headway. He tried to move toward Charmaine.

“Freeze,” the Fed growled and increased the pressure again.

“Okay, okay.” Dane’s words came out raspy. “Whatever you say. But she may still be alive. Get help for her, please. I tried to call 911, but the phone’s dead.”

Another younger and leaner Fed picked up the receiver and listened. “Phone’s okay,” he told the Fed with the gun at his throat. They both scowled at Dane.

“If it’s working, the killer is still here, playing with the lines.” Dane’s heart pounded in his ears. “He’s the one you want, not me.”

The younger Fed they called Murphy twisted Dane’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. Dane winced as cold metal dug into his wrists.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the husky Fed said.
What? The idiot was reading him his Miranda rights. They actually thought he did this.

Oh, God. No way would his flimsy excuse for being there change their minds.

He should’ve seen this coming. Charmaine had left a message on his cell ordering him to meet her here at seven. “I have that lead you wanted,” she’d said, sounding breathless and really freaked out. “Don’t be even a second late. It’s a matter of life or death.” Then abruptly she’d hung up. He’d been as busy as hell checking out another Video lead on the other side of town and was so used to Charmaine’s drama-queen antics and flare for mystery that didn’t get too excited. When he finally called her back, she didn’t answer her cell. That had worried him. She always answered it. So he’d rushed like hell to get here by the deadline.

“Do you understand these rights?”

“Yes.” He understood more than his rights. He’d been had. The killer must’ve forced Charmaine to call him and use her wiles to get him here on time. The setup wasn’t very inventive, yet like a rookie reporter he’d walked right into it. His brotherly affection for the kid had made him an easy mark.

A young woman dressed in black dashed into the studio. Her tailored suit failed to conceal her eye-catching figure. Her physical fitness showed—trim body, frugal movements—a woman who obviously prided herself on her energy and stamina.

“Jill Grayson, Special Unit, FBI.” She flashed a badge as she passed him. After donning plastic gloves and protective slippers, she bent to check Charmaine’s pulse. She frowned and glanced back at him. “You’re in big trouble, Fella. We were on our way here with a search warrant when we got an anonymous call about a murder in progress. Usually flaky reports like that don’t pan out. But it seems we’ve hit the jackpot and nailed our Snuff Video Killer.”

Clammy fear mingled with the waves of shock that had been licking at his senses since he’d entered the studio. “Whoa! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Grayson ignored him and turned to the young, lean Fed who’d cuffed him. “Murphy, notify the Crime Scene Department. We need a forensics team here, ASAP.” She paused. “And everyone, don your protective gear. This whole place is a crime scene, including the outside parameter of the building, and the abutting streets.” She turned to the agent who had just entered the studio. “Lewis, set up barrier tapes. I want this whole building and neighborhood secured like Fort Knox.”

Trying to gather his wits, Dane watched and listened. From Grayson’s reaction, they hadn’t known for sure about Charmaine’s murder until now. But they had some kind of search warrant. What was that about? With all these Feds showing up, this was big. Based on Charmaine’s murder and the video cameras pointed at her, it had something to do with his story about the string of women violently murdered in San Francisco in the last year. But who the hell called the Feds to
this
studio?
Dear God, did finding Charmaine in front of the cameras violently murdered mean one of his partners was the Video Killer?

Grayson put a mirror up to Charmaine’s nose and mouth, then took her pulse again. She glanced up at the husky Fed and shook her head. The indifferent gesture tightened the knot in Dane’s stomach. Grayson was either a woman with minimal emotions or she’d learned to control them.

“She isn’t just another corpse, you know,” he said, before he’d caught himself.

Agent Grayson turned, looked up at him, then rose and skulked toward him like a cunning predator. Her eyes hardened to a steely blue. “Who is she?”

“Ann Pickins, but everyone knew her as Charmaine Du Bois.” His chest swelled with the ache inside. “She’d dreamed of playing Blanche Du Bois on stage one day. Now it’ll never—”

“Does she have family in Frisco?”

“Sunnyvale.” Grayson’s non-threatening questions didn’t fool him. She’d already made it quite clear she believed he was the killer. “They’re listed under Ernest Pickins on Coronado Street.”

Grayson tucked a strand of shoulder-length caramel-brown hair behind her ear. “And you are?”

He saw a fleeting softness in her eyes. This female Fed of few words might listen to reason—if he could find a crack in her armor. “Dane Clark.”

Her eyebrows shot up as though she recognized the name and didn’t quite believe him. “Named after the movie star, I presume?”

“Mom had crush on the actor.” Why the devil did he tell her that? “I’m a re—”

“I.D.,” she demanded, cutting him off with an icy tone.

“Inside jacket pocket, left side. Uncuff me, and I’ll get it.”