Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (76 page)

Jack stood by the front desk, one eye always on the front door as he tried to figure out how the hell this happened. Apparently, he had friends.

He’d come to Broslin for Blackwell, and Blackwell alone. He didn’t socialize; he didn’t hang out; he didn’t do the buddy thing. In his spare time, he either drove around town, trying to figure out where Blackwell might live, or sat at home going through the case files.

The FBI bursting through the door with their suspect in cuffs refocused him. Right age, right body type, right height.

Anger tore through Jack. Then hatred came and boiling darkness, his hands tightening into fists. He’d wanted to be the one to catch the bastard. Because he wouldn’t have brought Blackwell in, he admitted to himself now. He didn’t just want to end the chase, he wanted to end Blackwell too. Permanently.

The agents rushed the man toward the interrogation room, Hunter jerking his head at Jack to follow.

He hurried after them, blood rushing in his head. “Let me in there with him.”

“In the viewing room.” Hunter looked and sounded too damn self-satisfied. “Conflict of interest. We’re going to put him away for good. No mistakes now.”

Jack about gritted his teeth but went with it. He had no other choice at this stage. Blackwell had been caught. Somehow he was going to have to find peace in the thought that, at least, there’d never be another victim. He was looking through the two-way mirror by the time Hunter seated the bastard. He just stood and watched, even if he was tempted to go right through the damn glass, and let the chips fall where they may.

“State your name for the record.”

The man shot a sullen look. “Jordy Myers.”

“What is your relationship to Felicia Miller?” Hunter threw out the name of one of the kidnapped Jersey girls, then the other, but by that time, Jack was barely listening.

Wrong voice.

Although he couldn’t remember Blackwell’s voice perfectly, it was deep, not like this weird nasal tone.

The tension drained out of him, replaced by red-hot frustration as he kicked the chair in front of him.

“Not the right guy,” he said when Hunter came over to ask him.

“It has to be him. Keep listening.”

But the longer he listened to the interview, the more sure he was. Jordy had some questionable past with Felicia, but he seemed to have no knowledge of the other girl or any of Blackwell’s previous victims.

He was so disappointed he walked back out and sank into his chair, uninterested in Hunter’s display of various interrogation techniques.

“Not Blackwell,” he told the people waiting.

Chase swore, his way of offering manly sympathy, then headed out. He had to be back for his shift first thing in the morning. Harper went with him. Bing tried to talk Jack into a better mood, then gave up and headed out too.

Jack sat at his desk, paging through his folder. He couldn’t stop looking at his notes, pictures, crime-scene lab results. He didn’t know how to stop. There had to be something there, something he’d missed.

The agents brought Jordy out from interview, escorted him over to one of the station’s handful of holding cells in the back. They were all empty.

“We’ll transport him in the morning,” Hunter said as they too headed back to their hotel, pleased with themselves as anything, patting each other on the back.

“It’s not him,” Jack said again, but they didn’t even hear him.

Leila was just about to sneak out the door when Hunter caught her, handed her a stack of papers, asked her to scan them and e-mail them to him.

Joe and Mike stayed too. They had the night shift.

Jack slapped the folder closed and stood. Maybe Ashley was right and he was completely obsessed. In any case, if Blackwell hadn’t been caught then he wanted to go back to her place, stay outside this time, guard her from afar.

“They’re not the boss of me,” Leila groused as she fanned herself with the paperwork up front, firing up the scanner that was temperamental at best. She’d be here for another hour, at least. Her cheeks were turning an interesting shade of red.

“You okay?” Mike asked.

“Hot flashes. Just started and I hate them already. I tell you this.” She jabbed at him with the papers. “A woman’s life is no picnic.”

Mike seemed unprepared to discuss women’s health at this level of intimacy. On any other day, the appalled look on his face would have made Jack laugh. Tonight, he was too drained to do anything but shake his head at the rookie.

“There’s a fan back in the evidence room, if you want it,” he told Leila.

Hope crossed her face. “You sure?”

“I doubt we’ll ever get to present evidence on that case. We got a signed confession. Open-and-shut case. It’ll never go to court. Kids will make a deal. No violence. No criminal history, good standing in the community. They’ll get probation and community service. I’ll get it for you.”

He brought the thing up from the back, then plugged it in.

As the blades swung into motion, everything inside him went still.

Pain sliced through his ribs. Nausea rose up his throat as he straightened, and he almost lost the butterfly sandwich he’d eaten at Ashley’s place, but somehow managed to keep it down, steeling his mind and body.

The fan’s familiar grinding brought back images of torture in graphic detail he hadn’t remembered until this moment.

“Jack?” Mike moved toward him.

“Don’t touch the fan!” he ordered Leila as he stepped back, his mind clearing. “It’s Blackwell’s.” He pointed at Mike. “Get it dusted for fingerprints.” He ran for the door.

“Where are you going?” Joe called after him.

“Going to find out where those kids got this fan,” he called back. “I’ll let you know where to meet me. Be ready.”

* * *

Maddie was sitting on the couch with a pink cupcake with the biggest birthday smile on her face one minute, lying down with the cupcake on the carpet the next.

“I’m tired. I don’t want to go in the car. Can we sleep here? Please?”

Ashley looked at her father. “I have room for both of you.”

“I have golf first thing in the morning. It’s a business meeting really. I’ve been trying to nail down this deal for months. I can’t cancel. I’m sorry.”

“She could stay.” Ashley picked up the cupcake. “I could bring her to Philly tomorrow.”

She wanted Maddie with her. The ride to Philly suddenly didn’t scare her. She’d driven to town for the cake in the middle of the day. She’d pulled off a great party.

She felt stronger; she felt ready. She had stood up to both Jack and her father. Even Blackwell, which had been a nagging, if small, worry in the back of her mind, was in custody.

“All right,” her father said. “You two should be fine here.”

They said their good-byes, and she walked him out, watched as his taillights disappeared down the road. Another car came up from the opposite direction and turned into her driveway, an older-model family sedan. She didn’t recognize the car, but she did recognize the man when he got out. He usually drove the mail truck.

Her stomach sank. With Jack having shown up unexpectedly and the excitement of Maddie staying the night, she’d completely forgotten about the date. Okay, so it was mostly Jack. Right or wrong, she responded to him on a whole other level. Pete was…a friend. She would have to make sure he knew that, an awkward conversation she wasn’t looking forward to.

“Hi, Pete.” She opened the door wider. Time to start apologizing and explaining.

“Come in.”

Chapter Fourteen

Bobby Adamo didn’t give up the information easily, keeping to his story that he didn’t know anything he’d handed over was stolen, that he hadn’t been present at the burglaries.

Jack had to turn the conversation serious. Principal Adamo had threatened charges, called his lawyer, called Bing.

Bing threatened back with a charge of obstruction of justice.

And then Bobby miraculously remembered the exact address in a split second. Jack called it in.

The old Broslin Bank on Main Street had stood empty for years. It was the most stately building in town, all brick and fancy masonry, recalling another era. The bank had shut down during the financial crises and now sat with its windows boarded. Still, it was an imposing presence, between one of the town’s two dozen galleries on one side and the post office on the other.

According to Bobby, they’d gone in through the back, just in case there was some leftover money in the safe, but had found nothing but garbage. They had taken the fan as a souvenir.

Jack brought his car to a screeching halt in the back of the building, jumped out with his gun drawn, and went straight to the window Bobby had indicated, where the boys had pried the plywood off, then had just stuck it back in.

He didn’t wait for backup. All senses on alert, he climbed in through the broken window behind the plywood pretty easily, then panned his flashlight around the place.

Adrenaline pumped through him. He was here at last. At Blackwell’s lair.

Dust, dirt, overturned chairs; the bank’s counters were still standing. Some construction material lay piled up in a corner.

He tried a light switch. No power. But there would be power in the basement. The lights had been on the whole time he’d been tortured. He went from door to door, looking for the right one, and found the steel security door after a few minutes.

He shot the lock without overthinking it. Had to hit it just at the right spot, but he managed.

He flicked on the light, then eased down the stairs step by careful step, his muscles coiled. His stomach turned again as a familiar musty smell, mold mixed with paint, hit him.

This was it. The smell, the feel, the woodstove in the corner, instruments of torture mixed with instruments of art. His gaze settled on the walls—professionally soundproofed. That explained why nobody had heard him scream.

Unfinished canvases lay against the wall here and there, painted with a mixture of paint and blood, some probably his. He’d imagined himself finding Blackwell’s lair a million times. But it hadn’t been nearly as sick as this. Ashley’s paintings were macabre, but this was something else entirely.
This
was all the way insane.

His gaze caught on a metal chair, the chair he’d been chained to for three endless days. Rage built inside him. He wanted Blackwell. He wanted to end the bastard. Where the hell was he?

“Jack?” Joe’s voice came from above. “Jack? Are you down there?”

“Right here.”

The rookie drummed down the stairs, his gun straight out in front of him, looked around, paled when he understood where he was standing.

“This is it?”

Jack nodded, suddenly suffocating. “Don’t touch anything. But see if you can find something that would identify the bastard. Got a crime-scene kit?”

“Up in the car.”

“Go get it.” Jack ran up the stairs just as Mike was climbing in through the window they all used as an entrance.

“I want to know who owns this building,” Jack told him, although he wasn’t sure how helpful the information would be. Could be the bank still owned the place and Blackwell was squatting here, knowing nobody would notice, nobody would come looking.

He panned his flashlight, and the circle of light caught on the stairs leading up to the next level, another steel security door up there.

“That’s some heavy-duty lock,” Mike said from behind him.

Jack ran up the stairs. He didn’t shoot the lock this time. He’d taken the chance of a ricocheting bullet when he’d been alone, but wouldn’t now that he had Mike behind him.

He kicked to door, and again and again, using all his strength. He was close, so damn close. Nothing was going to stop him now. And the door did bang open at last.

Did Blackwell live up here? He pushed through, weapon drawn, ready for anything. Nothing moved in the darkness in front of him. He sensed more than he saw a great open space as he ducked in, went low to the left. Mike rolled to the right in a move straight from the police academy.

“Lights.”

Mike reached up to flick the switch, and it did work. This level too had electricity. Light flooded the cavernous space.

“Jeezus
,” Mike groaned and lost his dinner where he stood.

Jack damn near followed his lead.

* * *

He stood at the top of the stairs in Ashley Price’s house. He’d planned this moment carefully and would pull it off without a hitch. That was why he was a true master.

He walked softly into her bedroom, careful not to make a sound. A pretty room, lots of white linen, the sort of simple elegance he appreciated. She wasn’t as great an artist as he, but she had taste.

He had nothing against her. He’d even liked her. Of course, she thought her paintings were too good for the likes of him. He could smile now at the irony.

She slept the sleep of the exhausted—big party tonight. He picked up her cell phone from the nightstand, scrolled through her contacts, sent a text to Sullivan. Then he turned off the phone and dropped it into his pocket.

The police would find it at the bottom of the reservoir. Along with her body. And Sullivan’s. The police report would say she committed suicide, her troubled mind snapping. Sullivan had tried to save her but got pulled down. The detective might even get some posthumous medal.

He reached for his gun, ready to wake her.

“Mommy?”

The sleepy voice behind him, coming from the doorway, nearly had him dropping the gun. He whirled around. What the hell was the kid still doing here?

* * *

“Where does he come in?” Jack asked, back on the main level. He could take only so much of the “exhibit” at the top of the stairs.

“What?” Mike looked shell-shocked still, but trying hard to pretend he wasn’t, doing his best to suck it up.

Jack scanned the place. “Where does Blackwell come in here? The front door to the street is rusted shut. The back entrance the same. He isn’t coming through a broken window every time, not with tools and supplies and those big canvases. He didn’t carry me through a window. No way.”

“A secret door?” Mike was snapping back to a straighter frame of mind, where he needed to be for this.