Dying To Play

Chapter 4

“Have a seat, Agent Callahan,” John offered before shooting Elaine a look that meant two things—sit down and shut up.

Too pissed off to be submissive, she ignored her boss and looked directly at Callahan, daring him to make the first move. This close, his gaze startled her. It was more than simply analyzing…it was penetrating. Pure blue, like today’s sky, only ice-cold. Those eyes bore the experienced lines of someone who had witnessed too much…given too much. A chill shivered through her.

“After you,” he said with a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. It was more like a practiced offering. A compromise he’d trained himself to make during situations like this.

Elaine blinked and looked away from those disturbing eyes. “So, who’s in charge?” she asked John, determined to nail down that point right off the bat.

“You’ll lead,” Callahan interjected. “So long as,” he qualified, “we understand each other.”

Oh, he was smooth. She knew precisely what he meant. So long as he got his way, she was in charge. She sent him another evaluating look. “I think we understand each other perfectly.” With that said, Elaine sat down. She didn’t miss the relief on John’s face. This was awkward for him she knew, but at the moment she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to play nice under present circumstances.

Callahan settled into the other chair, his gaze lingering on her. She could feel him watching her…weighing the challenge she represented.

“We don’t want any conflicting obligations,” John told her, getting back down to business. “I don’t want your focus scattered by anything. We’ll let Flatt fill in as deputy chief while you’re on this case.”

Elaine stiffened as insult was added to injury. No way was she taking this without a fight. “I don’t see the necessity. I’ll still report in as usual. I can handle both.”

John shook his head. “I’m in agreement with the Bureau on this one. The case needs yours and Agent Callahan’s full attention. Anything less is unacceptable.”

Fury flamed inside her. It didn’t have to be this way. “Why not Henshaw? He’s senior, let him fill in.”

“My decision is final.” The look John gave her was more telling than his words.

Elaine recognized the futility of arguing the issue further. Once John Dugan made up his mind there was no changing it. Whatever his reasons for choosing Flatt over Henshaw, she had no choice but to accept the situation. But she didn’t have to like it.

“Fine,” she agreed tightly. This whole day had sucked. What was one more injustice? She almost laughed. And here she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse.

“I’ll need a status report every twenty-four hours,” John went on. “To keep the mayor abreast of the situation. I’ll also keep Senior Supervisory Agent Douglas informed,” he advised Callahan. “It’s my understanding that you’ll report directly to me throughout the investigation just like Jentzen.”

Callahan nodded. “That’s right.”

Surprise, surprise, Elaine thought. The Feds were staying out of the main loop. She wondered what hidden significance that goodwill gesture carried. Someone was pulling out all the stops on this one. No doubt to appease the mayor.

“So we understand each other here?” John asked looking at her again.

“Absolutely,” she said succinctly despite the fact that she didn’t understand any of it. And she damn sure didn’t like it. She hated this kind of politically motivated crap.

John stood, an act of dismissal. “Then I’ll let the two of you get started.”

Elaine snagged her purse and pushed to her feet. “Thank you, sir.” Disappointment flared briefly in John’s eyes at her curt tone. She refused to feel guilty for that, too. Though she felt sure he really didn’t like this any more than she did, she resented the feeling of helplessness it gave her. He’d been in on the decision making; she’d had no say at all. But he had a job to do. And so did she.

Not waiting for Callahan, she walked out while he was still shaking hands with John. It didn’t take the guy long to catch up to her. She’d just pushed into the stairwell when he breezed in behind her.

“We headed someplace special?” he asked as he slipped on a navy-blue jacket that exactly matched the silk tie he wore.

“Back to the scene of the crime. Where else?” Elaine started down the stairs without looking at him. If he was lead, would he have started someplace else? She banished that line of thinking. She was lead; she didn’t care what he would do.

“You want me to drive?” He was right beside her, his feet keeping time with hers. “My rented car’s—”

“I’ll drive.” She still didn’t look at him.

“Suits me.”

The last two flights of stairs were descended in silence. Well, silence, that is, if she discounted the war of conflicting thoughts and emotions inside her head. Every part of her that made her a woman wanted to cry out at the injustice fate had thrown her. The cop in her wanted to rant further about the whole setup of this little joint task force. But she couldn’t lose control…not right now. Later, when she was at home alone, she would allow herself to think about something besides the case again. Definitely not now, with some hotshot secret agent on her heels.

At the west exit that would take them to the personnel parking area, Elaine hesitated before opening the door. Something the chief had said suddenly rose above the rest of the chaos inside her head. She turned to the man waiting behind her. “Why me?”

His stare was analyzing and went on long enough to make her want to squirm, but she resisted. There was something totally unnerving yet somehow intensely spellbinding about his eyes. It was as if he could read her thoughts…could see inside her. She purposely cleared her mind, just in case.

“Does it matter?” he answered her question with a question, his voice carefully devoid of inflection.

“Chief Dugan said you asked for me,” she explained, suddenly uncharacteristically uncertain of her ground.

Something shifted in those intense blue eyes…some barely discernible emotion she couldn’t possibly read. “Douglas asked for you. I wouldn’t have.”

Douglas—his boss. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who had a problem with a new partner. “You wouldn’t have?”

“I would have preferred a male partner.” That unsettling stare cut to her marrow.

“You think one of my male peers would do a better job than me?” she demanded icily. She felt a muscle tic in her cheek at the absurd notion that Flatt or Jillette or any of the others could do a better job than she could.

He shook his head. “I’m sure you’re more than competent, Detective Jentzen,” he said in that slow, quiet drawl, honey sweet and polished smooth. “But in my experience women are ruled more by their emotions than by their gut. Emotions can get you killed.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “You would certainly know more about getting someone killed than I would.”

He flinched and she immediately regretted her words. At least to a degree. Obviously Henshaw had been right about Callahan’s past.

“Let’s just say,” he offered in that same controlled tone, “that I’d rather spare you learning how that feels.”

He reached for the left breast pocket of his jacket as if it were second nature. A frown lined her brow as she considered the small bulge in that same pocket. A pack of cigarettes?

“You smoke?” she asked, her intolerance of the habit more evident in her voice than she’d intended. This just kept getting better and better. Her favorite uncle had died of lung cancer after half a lifetime of smoking. She’d almost broken Henshaw from the habit. What the hell was she supposed to do with a good-looking, smooth-talking, cigarette-smoking partner who had gotten his last partner killed?

His hand dropped back to his side. “I used to,” he admitted, just a hint of reluctance weighting his words.

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “If you’ve quit, why are you still carrying a pack?” She glanced at his pocket once more for emphasis.

“It’s a long story. One I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in.”

Before she could say anything else he reached around her and opened the door. Her breath caught at his unexpected nearness. The vaguest scent of aftershave, something she couldn’t readily identify, piqued her senses, made her want to draw closer.

Turning swiftly away from him, Elaine led the way to her black, badly-in-need-of-a-wash Jeep. She climbed into the driver’s seat and reached over to clear the passenger side. She tossed the files she’d taken home to review, her linen jacket, and a take-out box containing the remainder of yesterday’s lunch into the back seat.

Callahan slid onto the seat, his long, lean frame making the vehicle seem suddenly too cramped. He pulled on his seat belt after noting she’d done so. The act was awkward, unpracticed, as if he rarely performed it. Well, whenever he rode with her he would wear it. She would see to that. She might be stuck in this situation, but she would retain every aspect of control possible.

As she pulled out onto the street, she glanced at his profile. He had those chiseled good looks, all angles and shadows, that Hollywood clamored for in leading men. A pair of designer sunglasses slipped into place as she watched, only adding to the movie-star mystique. His dark-brown hair was short, a little longer on top where it waved, draping a few locks down his forehead for a sexy touch.

Just another reason to dislike him. He was too perfect on the outside. Women likely flocked to him in droves, only to discover the internal goods were damaged.

She fixed her gaze on the street before her. Damn, just what she needed. A new partner who would not only get in her way, but who would also create distractions, for her as well as any other female around, wherever they went. Dammit, dammit. Why the hell hadn’t Douglas picked Flatt or Jillette for this assignment? A realization of sorts struck her with staggering force. She was a woman. The Bureau likely believed she would be easier to control.

Well, Elaine didn’t like playing the submissive part. She didn’t like it one iota. She stole another sideways glance at her passenger. Midthirties, she guessed. Definitely not the marrying type. Before she could school the thought, she’d checked out his left hand. No ring.

She wanted to kick herself for looking. She didn’t care if he was married. She didn’t care that he was too damned handsome. She had a job to do, and Mr. Hotshot Superagent wasn’t going to distract her.

Pain stabbed deep in her midsection, followed by a burn at once familiar and dreaded. She grimaced. Dammit. She needed to eat. But she wasn’t about to go to lunch with this man. Keeping her eyes on the road, she reached for the Maalox in the center console. She opened it with a savage twist and drank a long, deep swallow.

Feeling immensely better as the thick, velvety liquid slid down her esophagus headed toward the volcano erupting in her stomach, she screwed the top back on and chucked the now-empty bottle onto the back seat. She’d definitely have to remember to pick up a new one.

He was staring at her again. She could feel him. She flexed her shoulders, a useless attempt to release the stress building there under his steady gaze. Only then did she consider how what she’d just done with the antacid probably looked to an outsider.

She stopped for a traffic light and turned to meet the question no doubt in his eyes behind those damnable shades. “Don’t ask. It’s a long story. One I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in,” she said, repeating his earlier words.

His smile was slow in coming, like a dewdrop slipping down a tender new leaf, reaching for that point where the sun would glitter from it like Nature’s mirror. And when it reached fruition it was a sight to behold. Butterflies took flight in her stomach, and she knew she’d just witnessed an event as rare as a blue moon.

It was definitely something she wanted to see again.

And that only made bad matters worse.

Chapter 5

Trace stood outside the Atlanta Commerce Bank for a long while after Elaine Jentzen went inside. He was in no hurry to go inside. He’d already seen all there was to see. There would be no inadvertently left evidence, no conclusions to be drawn from the scene staging. Nothing. And that was the only clue Trace needed.

A cool breeze shifted the wide leaves of the massive magnolia trees shading the nearly empty parking lot. He studied the details of the large brick structure with its bold, white-column sentries guarding the double entry doors. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he huddled against the sudden chill that danced up his spine.

Why had he chosen this particular bank? Was it because Matthews used this one? Or was it the bank’s president that had made this institution the target? Trace knew little about the case so far, but he had enough information to recognize the familiarity of the game.

Dread pooled in his gut.

If last week’s beauty-shop murders had left any question, today’s bloodshed had cleared up the doubt. As far as Trace was concerned, anyway. He’d managed to convince his superiors at the Bureau, barely. He recognized that even the remote possibility of a repeat of two years ago had done more of the persuading than anything he had said or done. And Supervisory Special Agent Douglas appeared to be on his side…not that his support was much of a consolation. The bottom line was simple. No one wanted to take the risk.

The caption above the entrance to the bank snagged his attention, drawing him several steps closer. In God We Trust. He wondered briefly how many other Atlanta banks featured that logo. It would please the scumbag responsible for these senseless murders to no end to make a mockery of the people’s trust.

That was part of the thrill for the Gamekeeper.

He preyed upon those supremely confident in their ability to recognize the difference between right and wrong. No one saw the danger coming…until it was too late. He toyed with his chosen victims, manipulated them in every possible way. Then, when he tired of their frantic struggles, he used them to act out his evil schemes.

Worry creased Trace’s brow as he stood beneath the shaded portico of the bank entrance. There was one major difference, however, in these two cases and the ones from two years ago. The Gamekeeper, without exception, made the final kill himself. It was part of his signature—part of the ritual he followed religiously. But with both the beauty-shop case and the current one, the supposed perps had offed themselves. That had been the major sticking point with the brass. The profiler had been reluctant to agree with Trace when he suggested that the Gamekeeper could be behind last week’s murders. He would say the same about this one.

Serial killers rarely changed their MOs…unless some life-altering event predicated the change. He knew that better than anyone. But it didn’t sway his thinking.

Memories of the night his partner died abruptly slammed into him with the power of a train exploding from a dark tunnel.

Molly had been as green as they came. Brand-new to the Bureau. That alone had made her the perfect candidate for the trap Trace had devised. He’d asked for her, insisted on having her. She would play the part of his new girlfriend, his lover. And she would be the bait for the Gamekeeper. He would be the one to actually get close enough to make the collar. Molly had loved it. Thanked him over and over for allowing her the opportunity to work with a legend.

A legend. Yeah, right.

He swallowed hard, emotion making the action nearly impossible. He’d had such a hard-on to solve the case…to be the one who brought the Gamekeeper down, he hadn’t fully considered the risk to her. But he hadn’t worried because he’d been in control….

Or so he’d thought.

They’d played a twisted little game back and forth, he and the Gamekeeper. At the time, Trace could almost taste the triumph. He was so very close. He was going to nail him.

So many dead. All young with great futures ahead of them. Those were the ones the Gamekeeper liked best. No junkies, hookers or homeless people for him. He liked the challenge of more worthy opponents.

What was the fun, he’d said in one of his taunting calls to Trace, in stalking and murdering an already helpless creature?

He wanted to play.

To draw out the pleasure.

Sick bastard.

Trace clenched his jaw. He should have seen it coming. He should have known the Gamekeeper was too smart to fall for such an ordinary sting. The scumbag had known that Molly was Trace’s partner, not his girlfriend. But he’d also known that they’d grown close during the course of the investigation. He’d watched them, studied them. And the bastard had wielded every bit as much hurt…as much pain in the end.

She was dead. It was Trace’s fault. Nothing he could do would bring her back.

She’d died in his arms. He’d tried to stop the bleeding…tried to keep her alive until help arrived, but it had been useless.

He’d made a fatal mistake.

Trace jerked back to the here and now. He was shaking. A sheen of perspiration slicked his skin. His stomach roiled with the bitter dregs of his own guilt…of the vengeance he’d waited so long to wreak. He needed it more than his next breath. He wanted the Gamekeeper dead.

He’d managed to get off one good shot that night. He’d hit him, Trace knew he had. But he hadn’t killed him. The Gamekeeper was still alive. Trace felt him. The fact that the sick piece of crap had apparently dropped off the face of the earth for the past two years had lent credence to the possibility that Trace had managed a fatal hit that night. But he knew differently. Every fiber of his being sensed the evil lurking close by.

Whatever the Gamekeeper’s reasons for lying low until now didn’t matter. He was back, and Trace intended to stop him this time. He intended to kill him. He wanted to personally help perform the no-holds-barred autopsy on the son of a bitch. To hold the saw that cut into that twisted brain.

Trace fought to stem the tremors quaking through him. He dragged in a breath, ragged with his efforts to regain control. He had to keep it together.

This was his second chance. Second chances didn’t come along often. He would do it right this time.

“You coming in or what?”

Trace looked up to find Detective Jentzen glaring at him from the bank’s entrance. He jerked, startled.

Her eyes narrowed as she quickly took in his pathetic state. He squared his shoulders and blinked away the last of the lingering images that haunted him day and night. He could do this.

“Yeah.” He started forward, each step a conscious effort to remain steady. “I’m coming in.”

Not bothering to hide her annoyance, Jentzen held the door until he reached it, then gave him her back and strode across the lobby.

Trace moistened his lips and exhaled a relieved breath. He couldn’t let that happen again. If she suspected for one second that he was experiencing difficulty staying in control, she would certainly insist that he be removed from the case.

Not that he could blame her. In this line of work, who wanted to partner up with a guy who couldn’t watch his partner’s back? The Bureau had stuck him on desk duty. This was his one shot at making things right. His new partner resented the hell out of him, but he could live with it. She certainly hadn’t been his first choice, either. Though by all accounts she was a damned good cop, she was a woman, and he wasn’t sure he could trust her to react like a cop when the chips were down.

He couldn’t make a mistake and he couldn’t allow her to make one. This was his opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. To bring down the Gamekeeper and to get his professional life back. He didn’t really care that he no longer garnered any respect from the other agents. And he sure as hell didn’t need any friends. It was the job that kept him going…that he needed. If he had to go back to that desk for the rest of his days…well, he just wasn’t sure he could handle it.

Sure, he hated the way everyone looked at him now. As if they feared he’d go berserk at any given moment. But more than that or even the ever-present talk behind his back, he hated the looks of sympathy.

The panic he struggled with on a daily basis abruptly surged into his throat.

He choked it back.

This time would be different.

He would do everything right this time.

“Callahan, this is Detective Henshaw.” Jentzen stood next to an older man, fifty, fifty-five maybe. He looked a little rumpled and a lot cop smart. The cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth gave him a sort of Columbo-without-the-trench-coat look.

Trace extended his hand automatically. “Trace Callahan,” he said, not missing the older man’s methodical scrutiny.

Henshaw pumped his hand a couple of times and grunted. “I’ve heard of your reputation.”

Trace forced a smile. He’d just bet the old man had heard of him, but he doubted it was anything good. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” he suggested in as good-natured a tone as he could manage.

Henshaw chuckled, but those cunning eyes told the tale. He knew a lot more than he would dream of saying. “I’ll bear that in mind, Callahan.”

Trace looked from Henshaw to his reluctant partner and back. “I suppose Jentzen told you about the working arrangements?”

Henshaw nodded. “I can live with it. Temporarily.” He looked at the woman at his side. “I’ll have my final report ready by the end of the day.”

“Just leave it on my desk. I’m not sure when I’ll—we’ll get back to the office.”

“Will do.”

Jentzen’s cellular phone rang, and she stepped away to take the call. Henshaw gave Trace a final curt nod before walking past him. Trace reciprocated, damned tired of the pretending and the double-talk, but he had to play it out a little longer.

Until he set things right again.

“Just one more thing,” Henshaw said, as if he’d almost forgotten some important aspect of the case he needed to pass along.

Trace turned to face him. “What’s that?” Their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills.

“Don’t let anything happen to my partner,” the old man warned. “You risk her life unnecessarily and you’ll answer to me. You got that, hotshot?”

Trace read no malice in the man’s tone or expression…just genuine fear for his partner’s well-being. The warning wasn’t anything he hadn’t anticipated. “I’ve got it.”

“Good.”

Detective Henshaw pivoted on his heel and exited the bank. He paused outside the door to light his cigar. A puff of blue smoke rose above his head. Trace looked away, suppressing the urge to reach into his own pocket for a cigarette. He’d quit smoking ten years ago. Then, when everything had gone to hell, he’d picked them up again. Last month, he’d finally worked up the nerve to quit for good. He hated being at the mercy of the habit…almost as much as his new partner obviously hated the idea of being partnered up with someone who polluted her air space. She seemed to make an exception with Henshaw. Or maybe she had him trained not to light up in her presence.

His gaze sought and found Elaine Jentzen. She was no green, right-out-of-the-academy rookie like Molly had been. She was street savvy and smart, but more than that she was experienced. Despite her youth, she’d worked long and hard to get where she was. A degree in criminology with a minor in psychology and graduating top of her class from the police academy were pretty impressive feats to have accomplished by age twenty-two. Her very first case in Homicide had made a hero of her. She’d been flying high ever since. Not to mention making deputy chief before hitting thirty. He imagined she’d made a few enemies along the way as well. No one moved up the ranks that quickly without pissing off somebody.