Mutual Possession (Nine Tenths of the Law #1)

25. Kendrick

Chapter twenty-five

Kendrick

Spencer may not feel any different after last night, but I certainly do. I can’t stop looking at him, wanting to touch him. I can still hear his soft cries and the way he felt around my dick. My thoughts are consumed by him, even worse than normal.

I wish I hadn’t agreed when he said he wanted to drive. It means I have nothing but him to focus on and the way he’s casually resting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the glove box. His ring finger is bare now, but watching him earlier, trying on different rings before deciding on black titanium bands, did things to me that I can’t properly explain to myself. I hadn’t been sure about the marriage thing, but now I want to get him down the aisle, or the living room floor, or whatever, as soon as possible. I want him to be mine. To have my name. To be completely owned by me in every way. For him to own me in every way.

He turns and gives me a smile that turns my insides to liquid. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You’re nice to stare at.” More than. He’s stunning, all boy-next-door vibes with his bright-blond hair and cheeky smile. The dimple that shows up when his smile is full and real. It makes me want to bite and lick and leave marks on him.

“You want to kiss me again,” he teases, his lips twisting flirtatiously.

“I’ll never say no but maybe keep your eyes on the road for now.” I’d rather not get into an accident before we get to our destination. We’ve had enough mishaps with cars to last a lifetime, and I don’t fancy putting my leg to that kind of test again.

The second he pulls into a spot a block away from our destination, he tugs me across the seat into a wet, desperate kiss. With a moan, I get my arms around him and take over, loving the way he trembles and sighs into my mouth. Goddamn, I’ll never get enough of kissing him like this.

“Is this”—Spencer doesn’t finish his sentence, diving in for another kiss first—“Is this good?”

“Perfect, baby.” Threading my fingers through his hair, I lick across his bottom lip before covering him again. “So fucking perfect.” With a thumb under his jaw, I tilt his head up so I can get better access.

I don’t stop until he’s panting, clutching at me with small moans that are an aphrodisiac to my ears. His lips are red and slick, with a gorgeous flush spread over his cheeks. He chases my lips, but I keep them out of reach with a smile. “We need to go before it gets too late to look around.”

People think that it’s the cover of darkness that makes it easier to sneak around. Doing it in broad daylight tends to hide it better, in my experience. We act like we belong there, and no one questions it. Getting spotted doing anything in the dark makes anyone around far more suspicious. Of course, there are ways to never get spotted. Sometimes the direct path is just easier. And we want this finished, now.

Jack Ferguson lives in an apartment building that looks like it’s a hundred years old, with creaky floors, impressive skirting and architecture, and an elevator we don’t trust enough to use. He lives on the fifth floor, second door to the right. The building doesn’t have security cameras anywhere, but there’s no telling whether Jack himself has any installed. Doubt we’d find them even if we looked. It’s not like he doesn’t know we’re coming for him.

Spencer casually rests against the wall while I work on the lock. I lean a shoulder against the door and casually pick it, looking like two guys having a chat outside someone’s door. No one passes us, and we’re inside in a matter of minutes.

The apartment is a one-bedroom with an open-plan living area for the dining, kitchen, and living room. It’s a mess of dirty plates across the benches, the coffee table, and the small square dining table pushed against the window beside the door leading onto the balcony.

“For ex-military, he’s a slob.”

“Not all habits follow you into civilian life,” I say absently, pulling on a pair of gloves and handing Spencer some. “After years of discipline, some people just want to break free. And end up completely on the other side.”

“I guess so.” Spencer flicks a Chinese takeout container. “Think he’s sloppy enough to leave us something to use?”

“We can hope.” Even a careful person slips up. If the only motivation he has for the murders is to help his daughter, and there’s nothing more to it, then we may not find anything. But if there’s something else to it, something else driving him, then it’s possible.

Other than a rancid smell—how has he not noticed this?—there isn’t anything interesting in the fridge. Or the cupboards—except for his apparent obsession with packet noodles. The clothes in the dryer in his bathroom are still slightly warm to the touch, which means he put it on earlier that day before he went to work.

The bed isn’t made, a clash of green sheets and an orange cover. One pillow on the bed. His military shows more in the wardrobe, everything neatly stacked and hung up, perfectly pressed.

“This guy is even more boring than Colin Trine was,” Spencer remarks, flicking through the jackets hanging up. “He doesn’t know what colour is, and there aren’t even any dirty magazines in the bathroom.”

“You don’t have dirty magazines in your bathroom.” Is that some sort of requirement for being interesting?

“No, but I have you.”

“I’m your dirty magazine?”

“Mmm.” He gives me a slow once-over that heats my blood. “You’re the naked centrefold that I take out to put on my wall so I can see it while I fall asleep.”

“I don’t think that’s what most people do with the centrefold,” I say with a snicker.

“They’re doing it wrong.” He kneels down and starts dragging out shoe boxes from the bottom of the wardrobe. “Who needs this many shoes?” he asks, ending up with twelve of them surrounding him.

I grab one from the top of the pile and pull it open. Black combat boots. They’re gleaming, like they’re new. He hasn’t worn them. The second pair is the same. Brand new. “Present pile?” Maybe he likes giving people shoes as gifts.

“Mayb—hello.”

Dropping the box on the bed, I peer over his shoulder. “Those aren’t shoes.” Three filled paper bags are nestled in the box, the scrunched paper that is shoved into new shoes around them, keeping them secure. Subtly hidden.

“I feel like I’ve gone back in time to school lunches,” Spencer says with a wrinkled nose. He pulls one out and shoves the other boxes out of the way to give himself space before upending it onto the floor.

Jesus Christ. Jackpot.

Right on top is a photo of a woman we’ve never seen before, looking peaceful in a bath. They either consented to him taking pictures of them first, or they haven’t been dead long, based on their colouring. Exactly like the two murders we know about. We were right about him having done it before. An uncomfortable pattern.

The second picture is of Leah Anderson in the bath. They’re fucking trophies.

Spencer picks up a curled bunch of hair, tied together with a ribbon. Never mind, that’s the real trophy. Likely taken from his victims after their deaths.

“I bet if we pulled DNA from these strands, it’ll confirm they belong to Anderson. It’s the same shade of brown as hers. What a sick fuck.”

Can’t argue with that. I drop to the floor beside Spencer and sift through the other objects. A locket with her initials on it and pictures of the two of them together inside it. Newspaper clippings all about her during her acting highlights, some gossip magazine cutouts, and then more than a dozen regarding her murder and the shit the show went through after they used it for publicity.

“He may have done these last two for his daughter, but he started it for himself.” Getting Melody ahead in her career was just a convenient excuse to keep going. My eyes meet Spencer’s. “He won’t stop even if he got her the position she wanted. This is more than just fulfilling her dreams. He’s getting something out of this, and he’ll already be looking for his next victim.”

“Call Greer.” Spencer pulls out the other bags and then empties one into the shoe box. All keepsakes connected to Veronica. The fourth is Irene. Pictures of the kill. Things that belonged to her. And more hair. “Why would he be stupid enough to keep these here?”

“He hid them among the shoes.” I press my phone to my ear, the ringing obscenely loud in the quiet room. “He probably figured that most cops are too lazy to look through the whole lot. Get to shoe number seven out of twelve, and you put them back, confident they’re all just footwear.” It’s possible they’re just from his most recent kills, and he stores the rest elsewhere.

“What?” Greer answers. “This better be fucking good; I’m at work.”

“I need you to get a warrant to search Jack Ferguson’s house. You’re gonna want to do it ASAP. Talk to Riley, get it pushed through.”

Greer pauses. “What’d you find?”

“When you get here, make sure you thoroughly look in his wardrobe, and go through every single shoe box that he has.”

He hangs up without answering, and I pocket my phone, confident he’ll get it sorted. He’s an asshole but a competent one.

“Put everything back the way we found it, and let’s get the fuck out of here.” Once Greer gets in here and finds this, our job is done. He’ll arrest Jack and put it through the proper channels. Disappointing, as I’d rather put a bullet between his eyes, but either way, he’s going away for a long time, and that’s still a job well-done.

Spencer stacks them exactly how he found them, carefully selecting the boxes and putting them back in the order he pulled them out, meticulously retracing his steps so nothing is out of place.

We leave without any trace of us ever having been there.

Spencer’s expression is thoughtful as we strap ourselves back into the car. He licks his lips and swings out onto the street without looking. “Little anticlimactic,” he remarks after a second.

“How so?”

He shrugs. “Greer’s gonna go in and mop up, and that’s it. After all that, we don’t even get to shoot someone.”

“Maybe next time.” I for one am looking forward to some downtime before new cases come our way. Time for Spencer and me and nothing else.