Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) (20 page)

“What about Jason Brady? You and he are best friends, right?”

Hawke blew out a tired breath and shook his head. “Jason isn’t that sort of guy.”

“He’s pretty torn up about you being locked up—”

“Because he knows I didn’t do it.”

“He written to you in here?”

Hawke shook his head.

“I thought you guys were best friends?”

“I wrote to him a few times. I told him not to write back. And not to visit. Just to concentrate on his game. To do his best for me.”

“He seems pretty angry.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t he be angry? He knows I didn’t do it!” Hawke’s voice rose in fury. Then he froze, staring hard at him. “This is the same guy, isn’t it? The same guy who raped those other girls last year, but somehow got them to say it was me.” His eyes gleamed.

Darsh kept silent.

Hawke carried on talking. Maybe this was why his lawyers had kept him off the stand. The kid wouldn’t shut up.

“There’s no way Jason is the rapist.”

“Why’s that?”

Hawke shook his head in disbelief. “He’s my best friend. We lived together, played together, traveled together, got drunk together. I know he’s not the rapist same way as he knows it’s not me. I
know
him.”

“He had his tongue down Tanya Whitehouse’s throat at a frat party on Monday night.”

Hawke winced. Darsh didn’t know if it was because he’d mentioned Cassie’s roomie, or reminded him that life went on even as he rotted in here.

“Jason likes sex. A lot. He’s not in a relationship. He’s a star athlete at an elite college and girls dig him. Doesn’t mean he can’t control himself.”

“He likes hurting people on the field.”

Hawke shook his head in disgust. “It’s
football
. Fuck.”

Darsh watched the guy carefully but saw nothing except a frustrated young man.

Hawke leaned forward again, eyes intent. “Did she suffer? Cassie?”

If the kid
was
a serial rapist he might get off on the details, but hopefully he wouldn’t be able to hide it. Darsh needed to test him.

“He beat her up. Tied her to the bed, and raped her. Probably more than once.”

Hawke lost every vestige of color.

“Then he strangled her with his bare hands.”

Hawke veered away, put his head between his knees, and puked all over the floor. Darsh stood and stepped back. Hawke stumbled away and sank against the far wall, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

It was tough to fake that sort of visceral reaction.

The guard glared at Darsh then left—presumably to grab a mop and bucket.

“Did you write to Cassie?” Darsh asked. His own stomach was roiling, and not just from the smell. He was starting to have serious doubts about Hawke’s guilt.

“Yeah, I wrote to her.” He swallowed repeatedly. He sat shaking with his knees tight to his chest—he reminded Darsh of Rachel Knight earlier. “Dear God, I hope they put me back in solitary.”

“Why?” Darsh said sharply.

Hawke’s lip curled. “There’s a group of guys biding their time to nail my skinny white ass.” His eyes were desolate. “If they see this weakness, they’ll figure it’s time and try to fucking destroy me. Then I’ll have to fight back to survive, and if I fight back it hurts my chances of appeal and parole.”

Darsh ignored the sympathy he was feeling. “What sort of letters did you write to Cassie?” He wanted to know what the UNSUB knew.

Hawke blew out a big breath. The guard came in with a mop and metal bucket, handed it to the kid. He climbed slowly to his feet.

“I described what it was like in here. The other inmates. The guards. The fucking walls.” He raised his brows at the guy at the door who didn’t crack a smile. “I tried to keep it light.” He wiped his face on his shoulder, even as he kept mopping up the mess off the floor. “I should have broken up with her when I was arrested.” His hands twisted on the wooden handle. “I should have ignored my lawyers, and her. Made her hate me.” Hawke held Darsh’s stare. “He chose her because of me, didn’t he?”

Darsh nodded. “Probably.”

“Did he rape Mandy?”

Darsh shook his head.

“Isn’t that unusual for these perverts?”

“‘Unusual’ and ‘pervert’ seems to go together.” Darsh shrugged his shoulders. “Detective Donovan was the first officer on scene.” He waited for a reaction.

“Oh, man, Cassie hated her. She’d have hated that Donovan was on the case.” The kid pressed his eyes shut against a fresh onslaught of tears.

“You don’t hate Donovan?”

“She’s just doing her job. Despite what you may have heard, I have a great deal of respect for women in general.” Hawke glared at him. “Was I happy she thought I could do this to another human being after she’d interviewed me a couple of times? No, I was pissed. But after hearing those girls testify in court? I’d have convicted me, too.”

“So what do you think happened?”

His breath came out in a soft snort. “Someone set me up, Agent Singh. And they did a bang up job of it, too.” Hawke’s expression turned cold. “And they’re not done with me yet or they wouldn’t have murdered Cass.”

Darsh’s gut was telling him the same thing, but that wouldn’t look good for the Forbes Pines PD. And Erin in particular because everyone wanted to make her the scapegoat for a failure within the system.

But what was more important? Putting the right bad guy behind bars or the reputation of the local cops? He knew, he just didn’t like the fact he was going to put a good cop in a bad position. “Do you know anyone who hates you this much?”

Hawke rinsed out the mop one final time and pushed it to the side of the room, propping it against the wall. “I used to think I was a good guy, but looking back? I was a jerk. I drank too much, bullied people, even though at the time I told myself we were all having a good time. Before I started seeing Cass I had hundreds of girls and never bothered to even learn their names. I trash-talked every member of any opposition I ever met. I was a fucking jerk.”

“You remember the names of people you pissed off?”

Hawke spread his hands wide. “You got a few hours?”

“Write them down. Ask to have the warden send them to me. I’ll make sure you’re kept in seclusion from the general population.” A phone call to the governor should help with that.

Hawke shook his head. “Pretty ironic that I’m safest locked up with the rapists and pedophiles.” He stared down at the floor. “Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

Hawke looked up. “Can I go to Cassie’s funeral?”

Darsh could read the wretched grief on the kid’s face, but doubted it would happen. “I’ll talk to the warden.”

The kid nodded, and Darsh walked away, wishing he didn’t have that terrible feeling in his gut that the justice system had failed this young man.

E
rin let them
finish booking their homeless suspect, which thankfully involved stripping and hosing him down before she started to question him. Someone found him some coveralls to wear when they took his clothes for evidence. He’d waived his right to an attorney.

Harry was sitting in with her. Darsh was still nowhere to be seen. She had no idea what to make of his absence.

She opened the file in front of her. “Your name is Peter Zimmerman?”

Stinky Pete—AKA Peter Zimmerman—wouldn’t meet her gaze. His hair was a straggly salt and pepper gray. Grooves cut deeply into the skin of his forehead and around his mouth. His cheeks were hollowed out beneath prominent cheekbones. There was a fresh cut on his face as if someone had recently hit him. His hands lay on the tabletop, wrist bones too big for his scrawny arms.

“Is your legal name Peter Zimmerman?” she repeated. That’s what AFIS had come back with when they’d run his prints. The guy had an open warrant down in Texas for DUI back in 2010. He’d been a Marine before that. Erin ignored the pity she felt for a man who’d fallen on hard times. This was exactly why justice needed to be blind.

Pete stopped trying to ignore her questions. “Yeah.”

“You live under the bridge near the river?”

His eyes jerked around the room as if blinded. “Got a spot there. You guys better not wreck it,” he growled, suddenly focusing on her.

“Isn’t it cold?” she asked. How the hell did he bear it in winter?

“The mission gives me a bed and shelter when it gets real bad.”

“You been there this week? To the mission?”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe. Not sure what day it is,” he admitted.

He sniffed loudly, and she pushed a box of tissues towards him. He ignored it and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Peter, do you remember what you did on Monday? Today is Wednesday.”

He gave her a goofy grin showing broken teeth. “Sure. I was at the shelter for a while.”

“What time did you leave?”

He shrugged. “I forgot to check my Rolex.”

She didn’t respond to his sarcasm. “You sleep in the mission that night?”

He scratched at his head, and Erin shuddered to think what might be in his hair.

“Don’t remember.”

“Were you drinking?”

His eyes slid away. “Maybe.” Clearly alcohol was his demon, but he’d never been pulled in for drunk and disorderly. He did his drinking alone or at least quietly. Probably because he didn’t want the cops to find out about the arrest warrant.

“What were you drinking?”

He scratched his chin this time, and Erin heard the sound of bristles scraping against his fingernails. “I got hold of a bottle of vodka.”

“Someone gave it to you?”

His gaze looked sly. “Maybe. Don’t remember.”

“Did you steal it, Peter?”

His shoulders hunched. “Don’t call me that. Call me Pete. Stinky Pete. That’s what I like to be called.”

Erin hardened her heart. Being upstate for the past three years had made her soft. Back in NYC, she dealt with ten drunks or homeless people a day, each with stories more heartbreaking than the last. There was no American Dream for these individuals. They were stuck in the sewer and some of them were determined to stay there, others were constantly being dragged down by circumstances they couldn’t control.

“There’s an outstanding warrant for your arrest down in Texas.”

He wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“DUI. Want to tell me about it?”

He crossed his bony arms over his withered chest. “Nothing to tell. You got the wrong person.”

“They think it’s you.”

His eyes got hard. “They’re wrong.”

“Guess we’ll leave that up to them to figure out.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I ain’t going back to Texas.” His lower jaw pushed forward.

“Where’d you get the bed sheet they found wrapped around you?”

“It’s mine,” he snapped.

“How long have you had it?”

He cocked his head. “Not long.”

“Where did you get it?”

His gaze narrowed further, and a calculating light entered them. “This about those girls that were murdered in town on Monday?” His body might be addicted to alcohol, but there was obviously still a razor-sharp brain in there when he was sober. “That why you brought me in?”

“Where did you get that sheet, Peter?”

He rolled his shoulders and straightened his spine. “Took it when I killed her.”

Erin’s heart stumbled. Could it really be this easy?

“Is that a confession, Peter?” Harry asked.

The man who wanted to be known as Stinky Pete nodded. “Sure. I killed her. I killed them both.”

“How did you kill them, Peter?” she asked.

He held his hands in front of him and acted like he was wrapping them around something and squeezing.

“What else did you do?” Erin held her breath.

One side of his lips curved into an emotionless smile that chilled her blood. “I raped one of ’em. Didn’t get time to do the other one though.”

Erin nodded at Harry to take over and stepped out of the room. Ully high-fived her, but after a moment, she walked to her desk feeling unsettled and pensive.

She tossed her folder on the desk and wanted to go home and sleep for a week. At least she’d get rid of the federal agent who was pushing her for answers she didn’t want to give, but the thought didn’t bring the joy she’d anticipated. Instead she felt hollow and empty and depressed. She picked up the phone to call Rachel. At least she could improve one person’s day.

*     *     *

He sat on
Erin’s bed and wound the rope around and around his forearm, tighter and tighter. He unfused his jaw and twisted the cord until his fingers throbbed from lack of blood and pain screamed along his nerves. He released the tension on the rope, and the blood rushed back through his starving veins with a flare of exquisite agony. That’s what giving in to the hunger felt like. Starvation followed by a feast.

He climbed to his feet, knowing he couldn’t linger because it had started to snow, and he couldn’t afford to leave tracks. But he was frustrated. He wanted to see her, but she was
too
busy. Too
preoccupied
, hanging out with that federal agent who thought he was God’s fucking gift.

Prick.

So what would be the best way to punish her? What did she care about most?

He glanced at a family portrait that sat on the chest of drawers. She had four brothers, but only one sister. He used his cell phone to take a snap of the photograph. He’d turned off all the locational trackers the day he’d bought the thing. Didn’t want his electronic footsteps to be traceable.