Kiss Me, Kill Me

dated the first victim. I’m sending you a spreadsheet of everything I found. We need to call the FBI.”

Sean couldn’t reach for his vibrating phone because a security guard old enough to be his grandfather had a gun pointed at him. The guy already had a shaky trigger finger, so no way was Sean going to startle him. He was standing thirty feet away. He probably wouldn’t miss if he fired.

Keeping his hands up, Sean said, “Sir, my name is Sean Rogan and I’m a private investigator.”

“Just shut up, the NYPD is on their way.”

“Great,” Sean said. Dammit. He wanted to talk to the cops on his terms, not as a trespasser. They were more apt to take him seriously, as well as keep him in the loop, if he went to them with his facts and theories.

The guard didn’t seem like an amateur. Instead, his squinting and shaking indicated that the man’s eye-sight was poor. He was scared of screwing up, Sean realized. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Just stand there. Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving,” Sean said. He hated having a gun pointed at him. He’d been shot once before, but had been wearing a bulletproof vest at the time. Still, it had hurt like hell and given him a bruise that had lasted for weeks. His brother Duke told him he was lucky not to have a cracked rib. Sean didn’t want to compare the difference between being shot with and without the vest.

A few raindrops blew at him from a gust of wind strong enough to make him sway and to push the tall weeds flat to the ground. The guard stepped to the side. “Don’t move,” he repeated louder, to be heard over the howl of the wind.

“I’m from Washington looking for a runaway.”

“Save it.”

Sean’s charm wasn’t winning this old man over. And the fact that he carried a gun-illegal in New York City- was going to get him into trouble. He had two options when the cops arrived: tell them about the weapon, or risk being searched and having them find it. Duke always told him to be straightforward and honest when dealing with law enforcement, but in Sean’s experience that didn’t always turn out so well.

A white sedan turned off the road and came toward them. It was obviously law enforcement, lights in the grille, a tall antenna attached to the trunk. Federal? This just got better and better.

A tall blonde got out of the car, her hair a mess from the weather even though she had it pulled back. Her eyes were on Sean, but she approached the security guard. “Panetta said you were just watching.”

“The detective told me not to let him leave.”

“Okay, thanks. Why don’t you put the gun down?” She had her eyes on the gun, but Sean knew if he made any sudden moves, she’d draw on him. She had that look about her, as if she could see ten things at once and react to a single threat accurately and without hesitation.

The guard still frowned and lowered his weapon, though he still had it in hand.

The cop said, “I’m FBI Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux. And you are?”

“Sean Rogan, private investigator.”

“Rogan?”

“Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid. Heard of us?”

“No. Do you have identification?”

“Yes. May I put my hands down?” He gestured to his front pocket.

She nodded. “Slowly.”

He complied, and held out his wallet.

Suzanne approached and took it, but stepped out of reach while she looked through it. She glanced at the back of his GT. “California plates?”

“I opened an office in D.C. in December. Haven’t gotten my new plates yet.”

“What are you doing out here this afternoon, Mr. Rogan?”

“I was hired to find a runaway. In the course of my investigation I traced her here, and connected her with one of your Cinderella Strangler victims.”

Suzanne frowned. “She’s one of the victims? I’ve talked to all the families.”

“She was friends with Jessica Bell, the fourth victim. In fact, my partner and I found some evidence that may help in your investigation.”

“Where’s your partner now?” Suzanne glanced around quickly but methodically, her posture alert.

Sean wasn’t going to tell the Fed that Lucy was talking to Jessica’s friends. “Trying to trace her location.” Close enough, not exactly a lie.

“Why are you here?”

“Kirsten Benton is a seventeen-year-old habitual runaway who always came home after a couple of days, until now. I started working the case on Wednesday.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” the fed said. “Why are you at the crime scene?”

“Kirsten called the Clover Motel on Friday night, paid cash for two nights, but she left without her suitcase or return train ticket. My partner learned that Kirsten’s friend Jessica was murdered last Saturday, and I came out here to get a sense of Kirsten’s mindset. I think she was here the night Jessica was killed. And, I think she saw something.” The rain came down harder and Sean was practically shouting over the wind. “I have a lot more, and I’d be happy to tell you everything while we stand here and get wet, but maybe we can get coffee or something?”

“How about this? You follow me to FBI headquarters. If everything checks out, you’re free to go.” She pocketed Sean’s ID. “I’ll keep this as collateral.” She looked pointedly at Sean. “Do you have a weapon on your person?”

“Holstered, on my belt.”

Suzanne’s glare narrowed and darkened. She disarmed him and said, “You should have informed me immediately. Strike one, Mr. Rogan.” She walked toward her car. “Call your partner and have her meet us.”

FIFTEEN

Kirsten woke up to two men arguing.

She opened her eyes, but her vision was blurry. The harder she focused on seeing, the more her head hurt.

Hiding from Jessie’s killer didn’t seem so important anymore. She was still terrified that even if she went home she wouldn’t be safe, but she wanted to go home. She was so lonely, so scared. She wished she could remember what she’d heard and saw when she’d found Jessie, but it was all a blur. Every time she tried to think back to that night, her heart raced and she began to panic once again.

Dennis had been so sweet to her, so kind and gentle. He’d found her on the floor of the den after she emailed Trey and carried her to the bedroom. He fed her soup and made sure she drank juice. But she wasn’t feeling any better. In fact, she felt worse.

She was dying.

“Don’t yell at me!” she heard Dennis say.

The bedroom door was open only a crack.

“Dammit, Dennis, this is my life we’re talking about! If I want to yell, I’m going to yell! I’ve been looking all over for you since yesterday. You haven’t answered your phone, and then I find out you’re staying here?”

“Charlie says I can stay here whenever I want.”

“Well goody-goody, my life is fucked and you’re staying in Charlie’s penthouse while he’s screwing women all over Europe.”

“Charlie isn’t like that.”

The visitor barked out a laugh. “He has everyone fooled, but he’s a red-blooded American just like everyone else.”

“Why have you been looking for me?” Dennis said. “I thought you were still mad at me for leaving Saturday.”

“I am, but we have more important things to deal with right now.”