All Fall Down (6 page)

Ashley took a step backward. Her sister's words pierced to her core, to her every feeling of loneliness and alienation. She saw her future stretching endlessly before her, empty and loveless. She saw herself alone, always alone.

She struggled past the image. “I know what you and Melanie say about me. That I'm a coldhearted
bitch who hates men. That I'd sooner kill one than open my heart to one.”

“That's not true! We don't—”

“Well here's a good laugh for you, Mia. I long for love, too. Especially when I see one of those sappy TV commercials, the ones depicting two tanned and beautiful people walking hand in hand along some exotic beach. I see that, and I want it. Then I get a grip and remind myself that it's all bullshit.”

“It's not, Ash.” Mia reached for her hand. “In the end, love is all there is. It's—”

“A guy you trust punching you in the face, is that what you're about to say? Or one who holds you down and forces himself into—” She choked the words back. “I'm not the one with a problem, Mia. You are. Because you believe in fairy tales.”

“No.” Mia shook her head. “You have the problem. You're so afraid of being loved, you push everybody away. You refuse to see that there can be good—”

“What's the gun for?” she demanded, cutting her sister off, unable to bear hearing another word. “Hoping Melanie will swoop in like when we were kids and save the day? Hoping she'll put a bullet in your bastard husband's brain?”

“Stop it!” Mia cried, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Just stop! I hate when you get like this. What's wrong with you, Ashley?”

Tears flooded Ashley's eyes. She loved her sisters so much. So why couldn't they understand her? Why couldn't they make her feel better? Why couldn't anyone?

She fought the tears back, focusing on her pain and rage—the twin demons she relied on so often. Her friends. Her only friends. She would show Mia. And Melanie. Someday they would know what she had done for them. And they would be grateful. And sorry. So very sorry.

“Screw you!” Ashley wrenched free of her sister's grasp. “There's nothing wrong with me. You'll see. And when you do, you'll beg me to forgive you, Mia. You'll
beg.
”

T
he tequila burned as it slid down Connor Parks's throat. He drained the glass anyway, refilled it, then tossed back another. Then another. He knew from experience that three shots, tossed back in quick succession, would catapult him to the edge of inebriation. From there he could sip and savor his way clear over.

In the past five years, he had become an expert on the numbing effects of alcohol.

Connor poured another finger of the liquor, then set the glass on the coffee table, on top of a folder stamped
Photos—Do Not Bend.
That folder was not alone, other folders, papers and files covered every available inch of the table, the floor around it and even the seat of an easy chair. The photos and files, the documents they contained, represented the past five years of his life. They represented his quest to find a killer and bring him to justice.

Not just any killer—the man who had taken his sister from him. His sweet Suzi. His only family.

Connor picked up one of the files, but didn't open it. He knew its contents by heart, could recite the words contained within by rote, the way he could the Declaration of Independence as a kid.

His sister's killer's profile.

He had spent every available moment of the last five years studying it and the corresponding crime-scene evidence. Without authorization, he had used the Bureau's resources to search for and investigate similar crime scenes and similar signatures. In the process, he had thrown away a marriage, a career, his reputation.

Even so, he was no closer to catching Suzi's killer now than he had been the day he'd been notified of her disappearance.

Connor passed a hand over his eyes, his head heavy from too much booze and too little sleep. A part of him wanted to give up, if only for the night. He forced himself to go on, to focus on the facts, such as they were. Though Suzi's body had never been found, that she had been murdered had been obvious from the scene.

The scene. Her pretty patio home in Charleston. The one he had helped her buy.

With his mind's eye, Connor hurtled back five years to that house, to that awful day. The day the Charleston police had called him at Quantico and informed him that it appeared Suzi had been missing for four days, that foul play was suspected.

Connor stood in Suzi's foyer, orchestrated pandemonium reigning around him, his stomach in his throat. As a professional courtesy, the CPD had promised Connor and a fellow profiler immediate access to the as yet unprocessed scene—if they could be there ASAP. He had caught the first flight home.

He surveyed his surroundings, the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck prickling. Violent death left an indelible mark on a place. It possessed an aura.
Palpable. Resonant. Even when a scene appeared normal at first glance, as this one did, death made its presence felt.

Connor moved forward, deeper into the house. Some scenes shouted, some whimpered. He had seen it all. Scenes painted red by blood and gore; others as clean as a hospital room. He had seen murder victims who'd been brutalized beyond recognition and others who appeared more asleep than dead. And everything in between.

Or so he'd thought. Until today.

Suzi. It couldn't be.

Despair assailed him again. He fought it off and focused on the job before him. The UNSUB had taken great pains—and a good bit of time—to clean up after himself. That level of comfort told Connor much: that the UNSUB hadn't feared being disturbed or discovered, that he had been familiar with the neighborhood, maybe even the house.

Connor crossed to the bloodstains that marred the carpet in front of the fireplace and squatted in front of them. The UNSUB had attempted to scrub them away. Connor snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then inspected the largest stain. It was still damp. He brought his fingers to his nose. They smelled of pine cleaner.

He shifted his gaze, moving it over the room. Judging by the impressions in the thick pile, the carpet appeared to have been recently vacuumed. His gaze landed on the hearth, stopping on the set of iron fireplace tools. Broom. Shovel. Log iron. The fourth hook stood empty.

Connor made a mental note to ask the detectives about both observations, then moved on. The kitchen was clean save for the two bloody bath towels shoved into the garbage pail under the sink. They reeked of pine cleaner and had been used, he deduced, to scrub at the stains in the family room. He removed them from the trash can, carefully examined them, then searched the rest of the can's contents.

“Find anything?”

He looked up to find Ben Miller, the Charleston satellite office SAC, standing in the kitchen doorway, watching him, his expression sympathetic.

“An empty bottle of pine cleaner,” Connor answered. “A Diet Coke can. Banana peel.”

“We did as you requested, everything's as it was the first time the police came through. The CPD forensic guys are collecting evidence behind you.”

“I appreciate it, Ben.”

“You understand, of course, that officially you're not involved. That officially the Bureau's not involved.”

“I understand.” A lump formed in his throat, Connor looked quickly away. “Make sure they collect the vacuum bag. I suspect the UNSUB vacuumed the scene.”

“I'll do that.”

“And, Ben?” The man looked back at him. “One of the fire irons is missing. The poker. Anybody run across it?”

“Not that I know of. I'll check it out and get back to you.”

Connor nodded and moved on to the hallway that
led to the two bedrooms. The hall storage closet was open, several suitcases spilling out. The way they would if Suzi had rifled through them, frantic to pack and leave for a trip.

He placed his hands on his hips and stared at the cases. Two cases, not three. One was missing; he knew because he had bought her that set for her high-school graduation.

What, he wondered, was this UNSUB telling them?

He stepped into the bedroom. Suzi's bed was unmade, the louvered closet doors open. Clothes hung askew; several wire hangers were scattered on the floor in front of the open door. Frowning, he crossed to the closet, staring at the contents, sorting through the facts in his mind.

After their parents' death, Suzi had become obsessively neat. Disorder had brought her to tears. The shrink he had taken her to had explained that losing her parents had thrown Suzi's life into chaos. Her eleven-year-old world, which had been safe and predictable, was suddenly, frighteningly out of control. She found comfort in orderliness, the doctor had contended, because orderliness represented a way for her to control her environment.

She had never outgrown it.

She would never have left her things this way, Connor acknowledged. No matter how big a rush she had been in.

Connor turned away from the closet and crossed to the dresser. The lingerie drawer was open. On the right side of the drawer, the sexy stuff was folded neatly—lacy panties, sheer nighties and filmy gowns.
Apparently undisturbed. On the left side, in a jumble, were the cotton panties and bras, the slips and panty hose. The serviceable stuff a woman might wear every day, for herself, not a lover.

From outside came the sharp blare of a horn. Connor jumped, the sudden sound catapulting him back to the present. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, then passed a hand over his face, equilibrium returning.

He reached for his tequila, but set it back down without drinking, thoughts returning to Suzi's death. He ticked off what the scene had told him, reviewing facts he knew by heart. Judging by the attempted cleanup and staging, Suzi's killer was a highly organized individual. Intelligent. Educated.

Additionally, there had been no signs of a forced entry. Her bed had been unmade, the nightstand light on, her reading glasses neatly folded on top of an open book on the bed. That had led him to believe that the attack had occurred at night and that Suzi had known her killer.

He narrowed his eyes, working to fit the pieces together, looking for the one that was missing, the one that would bring the complete picture into focus. Suzi and the UNSUB had progressed from the foyer to the family room where, judging by the bloodstains, the attack had occurred. The UNSUB had disabled her with the missing fireplace poker, probably with one or several blows to the back of the head.

Connor picked up the shot glass. His hand shook so badly some of the alcohol sloshed over the glass's rim. He tossed the remainder back, returning to his mental survey. Judging by the clumsiness and indecision he'd
found at the scene, the UNSUB wasn't a seasoned criminal. Nor did Connor believe Suzi's murder had been planned. Her attacker had seen the opportunity and taken it. After the fact, he had not only tried to clean up the scene, he had tried to hide the crime by taking the body and staging it to look as if Suzi had packed a bag and run off.

Connor swore, the brutally uttered word a shock to the silence. But with everything he knew, he was missing something. Some scrap of evidence, an obvious link. It didn't make sense.

Connor brought a hand to his eyes, struggling to see past his own emotions, to keep focus on this UNSUB's signature. Instead, he recalled his and Suzi's last conversation, a hurried phone call she had made to him at Quantico. One in which she had revealed that she was frightened. One in which she had begged him to come home.

“Con, it's me. I need your help.”

Not again. Not now. “Suz, can this wait?” Connor glanced at his watch, impatient, overwhelmed by a caseload that seemed to grow with each second that ticked past. “I'm leaving for the airport in twenty minutes and I have about a hundred details to tie up before I go.”

“No! It can't wait, Con. This time it's really serious, it's… I'm seeing this guy and…he, I…” She sucked in a broken-sounding breath. “I found out he's married.”

His sweet, flighty sister always seemed to attract one kind of loser or another. He bit back a sound of dis
appointment, glancing at his watch again. “Oh, Suzi, we've been through this already.”

“I know, I know. I'm an idiot. All the signs were there. But I…ignored them. Because I didn't want to believe it.” Her voice took on a familiar, hysterical edge. “But then I couldn't ignore it any longer and I…I tried to break it off.”

“Tried?”

“He threatened me, Con! He told me if I left him, I'd never see another man. Never! I'm really scared. You have to come home, you have to!”

He loved his sister. Twelve years her senior, he had raised her after their parents were killed. He was as much daddy to her as brother. But she was grown now and he had a job to do. A life to lead. In his three years with the Behavioral Science Unit, his sister had called with a dozen different crises. And each time he had dropped everything and raced home.

Not this time. The time had come for her to learn to stand on her own two feet. He told her so.

She began to cry, and he gentled his voice. “I love you, Suzi. But me running home every couple of months to fix your life isn't helping either of us. You have to grow up, baby. The time's come.”

“But, you don't understand! This time—”

He cut her off, though it was the hardest thing he had ever done. “I've got to go now. I'll call you when I get back.”

He never spoke to her again.

Connor swore, hatred burning in the pit of his gut—hatred of himself, his mistakes, the bastard she had
been seeing. For he was certain Suzi's married lover was also her murderer.

But the man, whoever he was, had covered his tracks well. A familiar fury built up inside him, one born of guilt, frustration at his limitations and disbelieving horror.

Connor breathed deeply. The taste in his mouth turned, becoming foul, like piss and day-old beer. He knew the type of man who seduced, battered, then in a possessive, jealous rage, killed a bright, beautiful young woman like his sister—he knew the type because he had seen their handiwork all too often.

Connor brought his glass to his lips, hoping to wash away both the taste in his mouth and the images in his head, of Suzi and the countless other victims, of the unimaginable and unthinkable that through his work had become the everyday. Of Joli Andersen and the terror he had seen in her lifeless eyes.

No amount of drink would rid him of the images—he had tried before. The best he could hope for was oblivion.

It would have to do.

His doorbell rang, impeding his progress to that end. Muttering an oath, he stood and made his way to the front door, ready to chew out whatever unfortunate had happened onto his porch.

He flung open the door. Steve Rice stood on the other side.

Connor glared at him. “What?”

“Nice welcome.” The man smiled, obviously undaunted. “Should I consider that an invitation in?”

“Suit yourself.” Connor swung the door wider and
stepped aside so the other man could enter. Without waiting for him, Connor returned to the couch and his drink.

Steve closed the door, then picked his way around the stacks of paperwork, stopping directly across from Connor. “Mind if I sit?”

“Knock yourself out. Clear a space.”

The other man carefully collected the papers that were spread over the seat of the easy chair, arranging them in a neat stack. He laid them on the floor, then sat, his gaze settling on Connor.

“Thirsty?” Connor asked.

“No, thanks. Unlike you, I've grown rather attached to my liver. I think I'd like to keep it.”