Chapter 6
Jealousy
The entire drive from Chez Gustave to the crime scene can only be described as one thing: a pressure cooker. If Kane grips the steering wheel any tighter, I fear he may rip it off and kill us both.
The cherry wails atop the SUV as we swerve in and out of traffic, but his silence is deafening. He won’t speak. But he looks. His gaze slowly, covertly shifts toward me when he thinks I’m not looking.
I keep my breathing level, steady as I pretend I don’t notice his lingering stare. I should’ve checked who was calling. I’ve delayed the investigation. He’s angry with me. And he has a right to be upset. It’s my fault that we’ll be the last ones on the scene.
He turns the corner toward a swanky apartment building, sirens and police cars stationed outside. I frown. An apartment building? Perhaps the victim was discovered in the lobby.
Kane aggressively slams on the brakes, and my body jerks forward. He glares at me, reaching into the back seat. He grabs an FBI windbreaker, tossing it on my lap.
“Wear this.”
I blink, glancing down at my attire. A cocktail dress and kitten heels. Definitely not standard agent apparel, especially for a crime scene.
“Thanks,” I say, looping my arms through the jacket.
Kane’s mouth opens, words on the tip of his tongue, but he slams his teeth together and storms out of the vehicle.
I follow him, nearly tripping on the curb.
Maybe if I apologize, he’ll simmer down.
But that’s stupid. I shouldn’t need to say sorry.
It’s not like I consciously ignored him.
It was unintentional. I was occupied. Despite what he thinks, I do have a life.
It’s small and lonely at times, but it’s mine.
“Hurry up,” he grumbles, holding up the yellow barricade tape.
I decide to keep quiet as I duck under his arm.
Several NYPD officers give Kane a professional nod of acknowledgement as we walk to the elevators. I purse my lips. This doesn’t make sense. Where are we going? Surely the victim wasn’t left inside an apartment. No. That doesn’t fit. That doesn’t—
Kane sighs as we enter the elevator. He presses PH. Penthouse. “Victim’s name is Reginald Wharton. Banker. He was discovered by the housekeeper earlier this evening. NYPD called us in after they fished his body out of the pool.”
My frown deepens. “He was found in the pool? But that…” I glance at him quickly. Still no direct eye contact. I swallow. “All the other bodies were positioned in public places. This… This doesn’t fit the unsubs MO. Are we sure it’s him?”
Kane’s jaw tenses as the elevator opens up directly into the lavish penthouse. Forensics analysts, agents, and officers litter the apartment as we step out. Kane points to the entrance to the grand rooftop patio.
“Why don’t you be the judge of that?”
I’ve seen thousands of dead bodies. Some fresh. Some partially decayed. Others merely bones and teeth. But it’s always been photographs. Images on a screen. There was a degree of disconnect. Impersonal. I’ve never seen a dead body in the flesh. Not until today.
Nausea creeps up my throat, and I internally scold myself for such a juvenile, unprofessional reaction.
Stepping onto the patio, I see Reginald Wharton’s body laid out on a tarp, surrounded by a tech team.
The smell hits me fast, a foul mix of decay and stagnant water.
Wharton’s skin is bloated and pale, having been in the water for approximately eighteen hours according to the coroner: same as the time of death.
Only boxers cling to his body, waterlogged and grimy.
The edges of his features are swollen, and his eyes are sunken.
It’s hard to believe this was once a living, breathing person.
“May I?” I ask the tech. She hands me latex gloves.
I slip them on and squat down beside the victim, struggling to rotate his body as I examine his back.
I trace the partially visible lash marks with my eyes, each one deep and deliberate.
“He’s deviating.” I tilt my head up and meet Kane’s cold expression. “Do we know where he was killed?”
The tech answers on Kane’s behalf, nodding toward the primary bedroom. “We believe he was killed inside the house. There are signs of a struggle, but it looks like he was subdued fairly quickly.”
I rise slowly, processing the scene. "But why here? It’s not public," I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
Kane hears me. "Opportunity, perhaps," he says, his voice low and thoughtful. "Zoey combed through his file. According to last year’s taxes, he filed in California."
I chew on my bottom lip. “He doesn’t live in New York.”
Kane shakes his head. “No. His primary residence is in LA. Moved to the west coast five years ago. Fitz called his wife. She said he was here for the weekend on business.”
“I see.” I nod. “We should… We should check out the primary bedroom."
"This way," Kane says, leading me back inside.
We step into the primary, and I immediately notice the hook drilled into the ceiling. Attached to the hook are two chains. How disturbing. The unsub turned a place meant for rest into something brutal.
Kane stands beside me, his expression neutral as he sweeps his gaze around the room. I step closer to the hook. It’s heavy-duty, designed to hold significant weight. The sight of it sends another wave of nausea through me, but I push it down, focusing on the task at hand.
“He probably hoisted the victim up here, incapacitating him while he tortured him. The position would have left Wharton completely vulnerable, unable to move or resist."
Kane doesn’t utter a word, staring at the chain.
“So, if Zoey’s research is sound, then this kill was opportunistic,” I muse, examining the bloodstains on the carpet.
The pattern suggests a struggle, but it was short-lived.
The unsub was in control. That much is clear.
I look at Kane. “And now we know that the unsub isn’t able to leave New York.
Maybe he has a family, or a job that doesn't allow travel. This is good. This gives us a lot of information.” Kane frowns, and I add, “I want to see the body again.”
Kane gestures back to the rooftop. “After you.”
Goosebumps manifest on my bare legs as we emerge on the rooftop, the windbreaker barely doing its job. A shiver courses down my spine.
“You should really dress more appropriately,” Kane grunts. “It’s November. Who leaves the house without a damn coat?”
I glower at him. “I took a cab to the restaurant. I didn’t anticipate being outside for very long.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t,” he spits out, running a frustrated hand through his dark hair.
“I bet you figured you’d be nice and warm all night long.
” We approach the body, and I begin thoroughly scanning the surroundings for an unlit match.
Kane lingers behind me, his breathing loud enough for me to hear.
“I thought you had dinner plans with your brother tonight.”
I keep my eyes forward, taking tiny steps as I sweep every square inch of the rooftop. “I did.”
He scoffs, but the sound is barely audible. “Unless your brother paid thousands for facial reconstruction surgery, that man was not Amir Hadid.”
In the corner of my eye, a tiny speck of brown catches my attention. I whip my head toward it, pride bubbling in my chest as I bend down. I swear I hear Kane curse under his breath.
I crane my neck over my shoulder, grinning. “Look. A match.”
The tendons in Kane’s neck twitch as he waves over a technician. They put an evidence marker beside it and take a picture. The tech then bags the match.
“Can you run a chemical composition on the match? This is the fourth one that’s been found at a crime scene. It can’t be a coincidence. Not anymore.”
After the tech nods, scurrying away, Kane’s icy gaze drops to my feet, and he stiffens.
“You’ve got blood on your shoe.”
I look down, cringing at the tiny smudge of red. Before I have a chance to wipe it off, Kane drops to one knee.
My breath catches as he licks the pad of his thumb and slowly drags it across textured leather.
A gust of wind blows against my exposed legs, but all I feel is his hot, heavy breath fanning against my upper thigh. He tilts his head, looking up at me from a position that makes me feel like I’m on an unstable, dangerous, yet intoxicating, pedestal.
“There. All better.”
My knees nearly wobbly from the smoky timbre in his voice. “Thanks.”
A miniscule smirk clips his lips as he rises to his feet. “Is something wrong, doc? You look a little pale.”
“This is my first dead body,” I lie, to myself, to him. “I suppose it’s getting to me.”
“Well…” He gives me a threatening smile. “Why don’t we get you home? The team has this covered.”
“But—”
His expression hardens. “The last thing we need is for you to pass out.”
There’s a debilitating edge to his tone that weakens every single one of my defiant brain cells. I melt into his demand, like gentle snow under a burning flame.
“I can call a cab,” I say, unwilling to wither and bend.
“Nonsense,” he states. “We’re done here anyway.”
As he drives me home, I try to process everything we saw at the crime scene.
Just the crime scene. Nothing else. Not the look in his eyes when he was talking to me.
Not the way he lingered on his knee for a second too long.
Not the way he breathes when he’s around me.
Not the way I breathe when I’m around him.
Just as I’m about to ask him something pertaining to the case to fill the silent void, his phone rings. He glances at the screen, conflict stirring in his eyes, but he answers the call on Bluetooth.
“Hi, Penny,” he says, his tone softening. “Is everything alright?”
“No! The dishwasher is acting up again, Theo,” an elderly woman whines. “There’s water everywhere. I… I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you called the super?” Kane asks, fingers rigid on the steering wheel.
“He’s out of town this week,” she whimpers. “I’m alone and I—”
In a surprisingly soothing voice, he says, “It’s okay, Penny. I’m coming over, alright? Everything will be fine. If you can, try turning off the water.”
“I don’t know where—”
“Shhh,” he hushes her. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”
The woman sniffles. “Oh, thank you, Theo. I’m so sorry for bothering you so late.”
“You’re never bothering me,” he says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He ends the call, and I can’t help but ask, “Who was that?”
His jaw tightens, and he drives faster. “None of your business.”
No pedestal is permanent.
We arrive at my apartment building, and he barely gives me a chance to say goodbye before he speeds off. As I reach for my keys, I realize with a sinking feeling that I left my purse in his car.
“Seymour,” I call out to the night doorman, “I, uh, I lost my purse. Can you let me upstairs, please?”
“Of course, Dr. Hadid,” he says and escorts me to my apartment.
Once inside, I strip down and step into the shower, lathering my entire body. I take my time to clean every inch. The hot water washes away the grime, but it does little to cleanse the haunting desire to be touched by something, someone, other than myself.
I push the thought away. I always push the thought away.
A couple of hours later, as I’m reading in bed, there’s a knock on the front door.
My pulse quickens, fear crippling my ability to walk. It’s been months without an encounter. It can’t be him.
With a sharp breath, I carefully open the door, relieved to find Agent Kane standing on the other side with my purse.
“I thought you might need this,” he says, licking his lips as his gaze sweeps across my shoulders, my collarbones, my breasts. “Wouldn’t want to miss a call from the boyfriend.”
My chest rises as I draw in a breath, and my nipples harden under the thick fabric of the plush robe. I hope he can’t see it. I hope he can’t sense it.
“Seymour shouldn’t have let you up. I told him not to let anyone up.”
Kane frowns. “Why?”
I grab my purse, avoiding his piercing gaze. “I have my reasons.”
Before Kane can pry, I quickly say goodnight and slam the door in his face.
His deep voice seeps through the two inches of wood, reaching my ears like an emergency broadcast.
Run for cover. Hide. Danger is near.
“Sweet dreams, Safia.”