The Profiler Page 14

  With their eyes on me, awaiting my reaction, I absorb all that Cain has said. I know this is the best thing for me, and he’s right. I have no problem staying with Severo. I do, however, have a problem with not having control of this case.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask my mentor, getting up to retrieve my overnight bag.

  “I’m going to follow CSU and wait on the lab results. This guy may think he has the upper hand, but that’s far from true. If—no, when—I get the ID on this guy and we know what’s what, you’ll be the first to know. We’ll get this one, Angie. Mark my words. NCAVC is going to eat you up when you apply.”

  In the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, south of Port Authority, Severo’s comfort lies within a second floor loft overlooking the cheap eateries and quaint little shops on the street below. Though I hadn’t really given much thought to what would be revealed inside his residential walls, I’m a little taken aback by his decorating skills.

  “You do all this yourself?” I ask, curious to know if perhaps his ex-fiancée planned it out. His apartment is bigger than mine, and definitely more tidy. Guess that’s why he felt so at home doing my dishes yesterday.

  “Yeah, I just figured I may as well make it livable. I don’t spend as much time at home as I’d like—you know, with the job being the way it is—but I figure I may as well have something decent to come home to,” he says, handing me a beer.

  Two plush leather sofas and a reclining chair are the focal point in the main living space, but along the exposed brick walls are a number of bookcases, with neat stacks of magazines, hardcovers, a few ornaments and framed photos. A fireplace is nestled into the wall, opposite a big bay window, and Muddy seems content to have found a place to curl up.

  Severo flops down into the nearest sofa as I continue to inspect his space. I’m not at all surprised to see a large and eclectic music collection, ranging from groups I recognize as household names to the telltale blind choices, as he explained earlier today. I slide a disc from an odd-looking case and set it in the player, waiting for an unknown band to make itself known over his surround sound system.

  “You have a lot of toys,” I comment, taking in the high-tech audio and visual equipment.

  “I’m a sucker, what can I say?” he jokes, as he watches me peruse the display of his personal lifestyle. His space is more mature than I would have suspected. Rather than skimping on style by simply framing poster prints, he’s decorated his walls with actual framed paintings.

  “Well, I’m impressed, to say the least,” I say, as he pulls on my hand, guiding me to sit next to him. I fall into the plush sofa and feel the buttery leather wrap around my form. Very nice, indeed.

  He places a thumb under my chin, drawing my attention to him as he speaks. “So am I.”

  My eyes meet his, and my expression must show my confusion.

  “You’ve been in the New York office for less than a week,” he says, straightening up from his slouch to place his beer bottle on the wooden trunk coffee table. “Not only have you managed to get accustomed to working with Cain and the rest of the team, but you’ve gained the respect of half the NYPD without a wink. I’d say you’re doing pretty good.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I sip at my imported cream ale. “You might need a reminder that I’ve also managed to make friends with a serial murderer, nearly get myself killed in a crematorium, of all places, and put a neighbor’s life in danger. I’ve had a busy week, all right. I just don’t know that it’s been all that productive.”

  “Oh, come on,” he argues, leaning in with a look of disbelief. “I can top that one. Remember Zeus? Just a few days ago you went undercover and spoke, what was it? German?”

  “Yeah, German.”

  “Okay, you spoke German to a serial rapist and murderer, and not only that, you nabbed the guy right then and there. And you had just arrived in the city. So don’t expect a pity party from me if we haven’t figured out this guy’s deal within four days,” he says, proud to have made his point.

  “But shouldn’t we have?” I ask, and in all sincerity I don’t know. Yeah, four days isn’t much time to work with, but tell that to the four dead guys our killer has left behind. “Shouldn’t we be further than we are, or at least know who we’re dealing with on this, Severo?”

  “We will. He’s going to slip up, Angie. It’s like Cain said. Guys like this want to get caught. It’s the only way we’ll know exactly what he wants to tell us, so he’ll slip up. One way or another.” He reaches for my hand, tugging at it playfully. “And I’m pretty sure you can call me Carson now. I think we made it past the official business part.”

  “Okay, Carson,” I say mockingly. “But you mind telling me what the hell that is?” I ask, angling a thumb toward the stereo. “Is that a banjo I hear?”

  “Hey, it’s good stuff,” he laughs, and then as I push myself out of the sofa to change the music, he pulls me right back down, closer to him. “I bet you have a little hillbilly in you, just waiting to be discovered,” he jokes, then reaches a hand to skim my shoulder, rubbing it with warmth, and I meet his glance with laughter.

  “Detective,” I ask, playing the same game that got us in trouble the other night, “are you trying to seduce me?”

  “Could be,” he whispers, inching closer to me as he raises a hand to my face, smudging his thumb along my skin, letting the contrast of his ruggedness mix with my softer flesh. His scent draws me back to that night at my apartment, when his lips were on mine, and I ache from within for their fast return.

  My voice is soft but demanding when I say, “Then kiss me.”

  Rubbing his thumb along my bottom lip, he tilts his head toward me, and with his other hand reaches to stroke my hair. My right hand grabs hold of his, and I cradle it as I lean in to close the distance between us.

  Our breaths are shared for a moment before I place my mouth on his, letting its warmth brush against my cool lips as he responds. His flavor is sweet, and salty, as his lips press against mine in a cautious yet controlled caress.

  I twist on the couch, turning my whole body to offer more of what I want him to explore. I place both hands on his face, letting my fingers dance along his cheekbones. His eyes soften as they skim over me, down my neck and along my shoulders.

  Leaning into him, I move my legs across his so that I’m facing him, straddling his body. My head tilts and I place my open mouth on his, letting his warmth heat me again. His tongue begins to explore and, beneath me, I can feel his erection expand.

  Raising my arms, he slides my shirt overhead, tossing it to the side and then getting rid of my bra before returning his lips to mine. Slowly, he moves them down my neck, and I arch my back at his touch. My hands unravel the necktie he donned for lunch, and then I pull his tailored shirt from the formfitting jeans he’s wearing, and slide the cotton off him, exposing a bare chest, warm and welcoming.

  His skin is slightly tanned, and on his lower rib cage I see a streak of scar tissue, giving evidence to an event I know nothing of.

  I trace a finger along his ragged scar, then press my breasts against his muscular breadth. My nipples react at the contact and I inhale his scent, sucking it in with a deep breath.

  His kisses continue, pushing harder against my flesh as he slides his face from my neck to my shoulders, until finally he reaches my breastbone, tickling my skin as he strokes his tongue against my bosom. My breathing intensifies as I let his mouth tease my skin, and I long for more of him.

  With my mouth on his neck, I nudge him down onto his back, still straddling his length. His musk intensifies as I rub myself into him, and the friction between our jeans causes my skin to ache.

  With one hand on the sofa, supporting my weight, I slide the other to my waistband, loosening my belt first, then unzipping my jeans. Severo shoves a hand down my side, his fingers momentarily stopping at my midsection to linger on my skin. Then he assists me with removing the jeans, and I kick them off, letting my legs wriggle into his.

&nb
sp; He returns his attention to my lips, sucking the heat from my mouth and pushing his tongue deep within me. I absorb this briefly, before wriggling down his chest, licking as I go, until I reach the closure to his denim. There, I let my fingers tease the doorway to his flesh, and his hairs stand on end, excited by my touch.

  Pulling hard on his waistband, I rip those jeans off fast, and he lifts his head to watch me get what I want. His flesh is now protected only by cotton boxers, and his size is pushing against the fabric, crying out for release.

  Sliding them off, one leg at a time, I then remove my last remaining garment and return my attentions to the hard flesh beneath me, rolling on the condom that appeared as if by magic in Carson’s hand. Carson’s breathing is now harsh, and his skin is dotted with little beads of sweat. My tongue traces along his abdomen, licking up his salty taste before I arch onto him, letting my moisture slowly envelope his ready-and-waiting penis. Pressing into him, onto him, I find the fullness of him brings an ache, while my body adjusts to take him in.

  My hips guide my movements, as I begin to circle around, letting my arousal climb through my veins. The detective’s hands are hugging my hips and he lifts his head to dart his tongue at my exposed nipples. The combined sensations cause my body to shiver, and I know my insides are screaming for more.

  I grab hold of one of his hands and stick his fingers in my mouth, moistening them well, and then lead him to my pubic region. Pushing his fingers between his flesh and my clit, I direct him to stimulate me in a pattern I know will guarantee satisfying success.

  With one hand pressed against my throbbing clitoris, the detective grasps my shoulder with the other, pushing himself in farther. He pulses into me, tighter, stronger, as I writhe beneath his touch. The heat within me rises, scratching at my veins, and the fluttering shivers begin to stretch from my center to my limbs.

  I press into him hard, letting the motion penetrate me deeper, as I absorb the reaction of my climax. Beads of sweat drip along my neck, some landing on Severo’s slick chest, and I press my mouth to his, tasting his salt-water skin.

  The pulsing slows and I release my weight onto him, our chests again pressing together. His eyes meet mine and I let my gaze drift over his features before I lift my head, taking notice of the accompanying music. “Now what is that?”

  “A washboard.” He chuckles softly. “It’s bluegrass.”

  “Well, all right then,” I say, lifting myself off him and reaching for my empty bottle. “You got another beer?”

  It’s half past six but I can’t sleep. A theory has come to mind, and with Severo’s laptop on hand, my research has proved somewhat useful.

  When I awoke from my slumber, I listened to a message on my cell phone from Cain, letting me know the name of our fourth victim. Paul Aaron White. It took me some time to wrap my head around it, but I soon realized our killer’s angst toward godly men is even more freaky than we could have ever imagined.

  In fact, had it not been for the symbolic platter accompanying Paul’s head, I might not have even come this far. With the image of the Last Supper in mind, I scroll through the Web sites I have found thus far. Matthias, Jean, Thomas and Paul. Four men who have something very unique in common. More interesting than their lives—according to these Web sites—is their deaths, at least in application to this case.

  “Come on, wake up,” I say, straddling Severo’s back, as his body is squished facedown into his comfortable bed. His head rises slowly from the down pillows. Much as I’d like to hop back into the sheets with him, time is not on our side.

  “What time is it?” he asks with a yawn, as he slowly stretches his arms out. I climb off of him, satisfied I’ve finally woken him up, and seek out my clothing.

  “Almost seven,” I say, removing his tie, which somehow wound up on me last night. A few rounds of good cop–bad cop was fun while it lasted, but we have some serious work ahead of us. “I’m going to hop in the shower, so maybe you can make some coffee?” His grumble barely acknowledges my request. “And then we need to meet up with Cain.”

  “Can’t we just stay in bed a little while longer?” he begs, reaching for my hand as I walk by to retrieve my overnight bag. “Cain’s not going to be in for a while, ya know.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I called him and told him to meet us right away, so hurry up.”

  “Why would you do that?” he asks, rising up on his elbows, as Muddy hops onto the bed for company.

  “Because I figured it out, Severo. I know how this guy chooses his victims.”

  Chapter 12

  “I can’t believe none of us thought of that sooner,” Severo says, following me through the glass door to the Plaza office. Cain is slumped over in his chair, both hands wrapped around his coffee mug. “Morning, Cain,” Severo says, then looks at me. “Coffee?”

  “You have to ask?” I say with a smile, then pull together the crime scene photos to spread them out in front of my mentor.

  “This better be good, kiddo. I hate Monday mornings, and for you to haul my ass in here early… I’m just saying, this better be damn good.”

  “It is,” Severo declares, handing me a fresh mug of office brew, topped up with cream. “Go on, tell him.”

  He takes a seat on my desk and I sip at my coffee before clearing my throat. “Apostles.”

  “What? Kiddo, I don’t do well on Monday mornings, so talk to me like I’m an idiot. Spell it out for me.” Cain sits up in his chair, looking worn-out, and I wonder how long he stayed with trace last night. Regardless of what the forensics lab uncovered, I just hope he got some sleep, at least. It’s going to be a very long day.

  “After I got the message you left on my cell phone,” I explain. “About the identity of the head? Paul Aaron White? Well, I got to thinking about all of our victims, trying to see what ties them together, what they have in common.”

  Severo perks up, enthusiastic about my theory. “Get this, Cain. Matthias, Jean, Thomas and Paul.”

  I proceed, in case there is any confusion. “This is what unifies them and made them a target in this guy’s hunt.”

  Cain stands up to walk around his desk, then looks at the photos upside down, though I’m not sure why. When he twists them to view them properly from his angle, though, I see there is no reason to his maneuver. “Now I’m not saying that’s a bad theory, kiddo, I just need you to clarify for me. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Yes. Those are all names of apostles. And you want to know the punch line?”

  “There’s more?”

  I pull some printed pages I obtained online this morning, via Severo’s home computer, and hand them to Cain. “Oh, there’s more all right. After I thought about their names being those of the apostles, I did a few searches to see what I could find.”

  Severo traces a finger along the first page Cain is looking at. “She found this. A Web site detailing how they died.”

  “The apostles?” Cain says, looking to me for answers.

  “Yes! And just look at it, Cain. According to that site, and several others I cross-referenced, the apostle Thomas died at the hands of four soldiers. Pierced through with swords.”

  “I don’t believe it,” my mentor says, clearly astounded at these findings. “Would ya look at that?” He shows the detective, who has already heard my entire theory.

  Severo says, “Yeah, so not only does that coat of arms thing hold up with the idea of this guy ridding the earth of believers—or disbelievers, depending on how he views it—but this only intensifies the issue.”

  “And John the Apostle escapes after being burned, but then apparently dies of natural causes,” I say, then clarify when Cain looks at me quizzically. “Jean La Roche? The name John in French is Jean.”

  “You don’t think it’s all a little strange?” he asks, his head nodding as if it’s too much to take in. “Them sharing the names of the apostles?”

  “No,” Severo declares, urging my mentor to grasp this information. “It may not hel
p us understand why he chooses who he does, but it certainly helps us understand how. Look, he followed Angie for days without anyone noticing him. Maybe he sets his eyes on his prey, gets to know them a bit on a personal level, like he did with Angie, and then makes his move.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with that thought for a moment. What about the other two? Matthias and Paul?”

  “Well, not that I need to point those out, but Paul was beheaded, and Matthias was burned to death. Cain, do you not think this is right? That this has anything to do with our guy?”

  He sets the photos down on his desk, looking toward the floor for a moment as he thinks about it. “I don’t know what to say, kiddo. Thing is, if your theory holds up, we’re in big trouble.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask, curious to know his thoughts.

  “Because, Angie,” he says, his voice very firm with unease. “There were twelve apostles, were there not?”

  I see his point. We may have four victims on our hands currently, but unless we find this guy soon he may cause a lot more damage. “Yes, and we know from those cuts on all the victims’ feet, that he’s counting them off, one by one. If we can figure out what else they have in common, if there’s any other reason these men are being chosen—” I pace past the dying plant in the corner “—then we can try to get a step ahead of him. Stop him before he does it again.”

  “Well, we know they all have some sort of connection to either the church or to religion in general, right?” Cain says, flipping through files to check his facts. “Like Devlin, who was teaching his students about myths and Christianity and such.”