Obsession

OBSESSION

Faces of Evil

Debra Webb

Praise for Debra Webb:

"Compelling main characters and chilling villains elevate Debra Webb's Faces of Evil series into the realm of high-intensity thrillers that readers won't be able to resist." ~New York Times bestselling author
CJ Lyons

"Just when you think Debra Webb can't get any better, she does. OBSESSION is her best work yet. This gritty, edge of your seat, white knuckle thriller is peopled with tough, credible characters and a brilliant plot that will keep you guessing until the very end. Move over Jack Reacher - Jess Harris is comin' to town." ~
Cindy Gerard
, New York Times best-selling author, award winning author of
the Black Ops, Inc.
series

"Debra Webb has done it again with Obsession—which may well be her best book yet—a top-notch thriller that will keep you riveted to the page and wanting more. Webb is a writer's writer, who delivers the kinds of books we all wish we had written." ~Robert Browne, author of
TRIAL JUNKIES

“With her extraordinary thriller, Obsession, Debra Webb joins the ranks of Stephen King (Misery) and Thomas Harris (Silence of the Lambs). This gifted author turns the search for missing persons into a novel that is chilling, unusual, and impossible to put down. ~ Peggy Webb, critically acclaimed author of
The Tender Mercy of Roses
, a literary thriller written as Anna Michaels

"OBSESSION is certain to please Debra Webb's existing fans and gain her a legion of new ones. An engaging, edgy thriller that's a one-sit read–with the lights on!" –Vicki Hinze, top-selling author of
Beyond the Misty Shore

"Breathtaking romantic suspense that grabs the reader from the beginning and doesn’t let up. Riveting."
~Allison Brennan, NYT bestselling author

"Webb keeps the suspense teasingly taut, dropping clues and red herrings one after another on her way to a chilling conclusion."
~Publishers Weekly

"Outstanding reading. Take a deep breath and enjoy!"
~Romantic Times

"Impossible to put down."
~Romance Novel TV

"Bestselling author Debra Webb intrigues and tantalizes her readers from the first word."
~SingleTitles.com

"Masterful edge-of-your seat suspense."
~A Romance Review

"Romantic suspense at its best!"
~Erica Spindler NYT bestselling author

"Fast-paced, action-packed suspense, the way romantic suspense is supposed to be. Webb crafts a tight plot, a kick-butt heroine, a sexy hero with a past and a mystery as dark as the black water at night."
~Romantic Times

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

Copyright 2011, Pink House Press, Webbworks, LLC

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

A special thank you to Dr. Michael Stone, forensics psychiatrist and author, whose research and analysis of evil inspired me to focus more closely on motive and the real person behind the evil when creating the villains in this series.

A huge thank you to true friends and talented authors Regan Black, Cindy Gerard, Vicki Hinze, CJ Lyons, Toni Magee-Causey, Peggy Webb, and Robert Browne. You gave me the strength and the courage to persevere

OBSESSION

Faces of Evil: Book #1

Debra Webb

“The face of evil is always the face of total need.”

William S. Burroughs II

Chapter One

Birmingham, Alabama

Wednesday, July 14, 1:03 p.m.

Special Agent Jess Harris’s career was in the toilet along with the breakfast she’d wolfed down and then lost in a truck stop bathroom the other side of Nashville.

God, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Jess couldn’t breathe. She told herself to either get out of the car or power down a window, but her body refused to obey a single, simple command.

The scorching ninety-five degrees baking the city’s asphalt and concrete had invaded the interior of the car about two seconds after she parked and shut-off the engine. That appeared to be of little consequence to whatever reason she still possessed considering that ten minutes later her fingers were still locked around the steering wheel as if the final hours of her two-day drive had triggered the onset of rigor mortis.

She was
home
. Two weeks’ worth of long overdue leave was at her disposal. Her mail was on hold at the post office back in Stafford, Virginia, where absolutely no one would miss her. Still, she hesitated in taking the next step. Changing her mind and driving away was out of the question no matter how desperately she wanted to do exactly that.

Her word was all she had left at this point. The sheer enormity of her current circumstances should have her laughing hysterically but the muscles of her throat had constricted in equal parts disbelief and terror. 

Screw this up and there’s nothing left
.

With a deep breath for courage, she relaxed her death grip, grabbed her bag and climbed out. A horn honked a warning and she flattened against the dusty fender of her decade old Audi. Cars and trucks whizzed by, determined to make the Eighteenth Street and First Avenue intersection before the traffic light changed. Exhaust fumes lingered in the humid air, mingling with the heat and the noise of downtown.

She barely recognized the heart of Birmingham. Renovated shops from a bygone era and newer, gleaming buildings stood side-by-side, their facades softened by carefully placed trees and shrubbery. An elegant park complete with a spectacular fountain welcomed strolling shoppers and relaxing picnickers. Great strides had been taken to transform the gritty streets of the city once recognized as the infamous center of the civil rights movement to a genteel version of a proud southern town. 

What the hell was she doing here?

For twenty-two years she had worked harder than a prized pupil of Henry Higgins himself to alter her speech patterns and to swipe the last damned trace of the south from her voice. A Master’s Degree in Psychology from Boston College and seventeen years of relentless dedication to build an admirable career distinguished her resume.

And for what? To come running back with her tail tucked between her legs and her head hanging low enough to the ground to smell the ugly truth. 

Nothing had changed.

All the spritzing fountains and meticulously manicured storefronts couldn’t hide the fact that this was still Birmingham—the place she’d put in her rearview mirror at eighteen—and the four-hundred dollar red suit and matching high heels she wore would not conceal her plunge from grace.

He
had called and she had promised to come and have a look at his case. It was the first time he’d asked her for anything since they parted ways after college. That he extended any sort of invitation astonished her and provided a much needed self-esteem boost. No one from her hometown had a clue about her current career debacle or the disaster zone that was her personal life. If she had her way, they would never know. The million-dollar question, however, remained: What did she do after this?

The wind from a passing car flapped her skirt around her legs, reminding her that this curbside parking slot was not exactly the place to conduct a cerebral overview of
this-is-your-life
.

Game face in place, her shoulders squared with determination, she strode to the Birmingham Police Department’s main entrance. Another bout of hesitation slowed her but she kicked it aside, opened the door and presented a smile for the security guard. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, too, ma’am,” said the guard, Elroy Carter according to the nametag pinned to his shirt. “I’ll need your ID. You can place your bag here.” He indicated the table next to him.

Jess handed over her official credentials and placed her bag as directed for inspection. Since she’d stopped bothering with earrings years ago and the gold band she still wore for reasons that continued to escape her didn’t set off any alarms except in her head, she walked through the metal detector and waited on the other side for her bag. 

“Enjoy your visit to the Magic City, Agent Harris.” Another broad smile brightened the big man’s face.

Probably retired Birmingham PD, undeniably southern through and through. He obviously took pride in his work, past and present, and likely carried a wallet full of photos of his grandchildren. The only trait that wouldn’t be readily discernible by way of a passing inspection was whether he was an Auburn or an Alabama fan. By September that, too, would be as clear as the rich color of his brown eyes. In Alabama, college football season turned even the closest of friends into fierce rivals.

“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”

Extending a please, welcome and thank you remained a stalwart southern tradition. On the etiquette scale, the idea of passing a stranger without at least smiling ranked right below blasphemy. Keeping up with your neighbor’s or coworker’s business wasn’t viewed as meddling. Not at all. It was the right thing to do. Concern was, of course, the motive.

Jess would give it twenty-four hours max before speculation about her business became the subject of water-cooler talk. Then the sympathetic glances would begin. Along with the reassuring smiles and the total pretense that everything was fine.

Fine. Fine. Fine.

As much as she wanted to avoid her dirty laundry being aired, the odds of complete circumvention fell along the lines of being hit by falling satellite debris twice in the same day. Once the news hit the AP there would be no stopping or even slowing the media frenzy.

Her life was a mess. She doubted any aspect of her existence would ever be
fine
again. But that was irrelevant at the moment. She was here to advise on a case—one that wouldn’t wait for her to gather up the pieces of her life or for her to lick her wounds.

Jess set those worries aside, steeled herself and headed for the bank of elevators that would take her to the fourth floor.
To him
.

None of the faces she encountered looked familiar. Not the guard who’d processed her in or either of his colleagues monitoring the lobby and not the woman who joined her in the elevator car to make the trip to Birmingham Police Department’s administrative offices.

Once the doors glided closed, the woman attempted a covert inspection, taking note of Jess’s Mary Jane pumps with their four-inch heels, the swath of skin separating the hem of her pencil skirt from the tops of her knees and the leather bag that had been her gift to herself on her fortieth birthday. When eye contact inevitably happened, a faint smile flashed, a superficial pleasantry intended to disguise the sizing-up of competition.
If she only knew.

The car bumped to a stop. The other woman exited first and strolled down the long corridor on the right. Jess’s destination waited straight ahead. The office of the chief of police. At the door she conducted a final inventory of her appearance in the glass, straightened her belted jacket and plucked a blond hair from her lapel. She looked…the same. Didn’t she? Her hand fell to her side.

Did she look like a failure? Like the woman who had just provided a heinous killer with a get-out-of-jail free card and who’d lost her husband to geography?

Deep breath
. She reached for the door sporting the name Daniel T. Burnett and passed the point of no return. 

“Good afternoon, Agent Harris.” The young woman, Tara Morgan according to the nameplate on her desk, smiled. “Welcome to Birmingham.”

Since Jess hadn’t introduced herself, she assumed that the chief had ensured his office personnel would recognize his anticipated visitor. “Thank you. I’m here to see Chief Burnett.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll let the chief know you’ve arrived.”

At last
, Tara politely left off. Jess was late by twelve minutes, most of which had been spent fortifying her resolve and gathering her composure to face the final buffeting winds of the emotional hurricane that had descended upon her life. The receptionist offered water or a soft drink. Jess declined. Getting anything, even water, past the massive lump lodged firmly in her throat was unlikely. Keeping it down, an unmitigated no-go.