Page 11 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Ignoring the other men and one woman who’d been in the observatory following the interrogation, Ian watched through the one-way glass as Helm cut off whatever the Special Agent had been about to say with a slash of his hand through the air. “I’m Mister Talbot’s lawyer, Reginald Helm, and this interrogation is over. Either charge him, or we’re leaving.”
Parrish wasn’t happy with that announcement if his frown and furrowed brow were any indications. Ian realized with relief that they didn’t have enough evidence to formally arrest Talbot. Hopefully, that also meant Parrish was completely wrong about his analysis and had hauled in the wrong man.
As Parrish stood and gestured to the door, Helm snatched the bottle of water sitting on the table in front of Talbot, who had obviously taken a drink from it. “You want DNA, you get a court order,” Helm snapped at the fed before facing the one-way mirror. “Ian, we’ll wait for you in the parking lot.”
When Talbot stood, Ian studied the man he considered a friend. There was no way the fifty-four-year-old was the killer, even though his tall, thin build, pointed nose, narrow eyes, and dark hair, which was graying at the temples, often gave him the look of a vampire when he was dressed in his club leathers. Today, the college professor was dressed comfortably in khakis and a green polo shirt.
Moments after the three men left the interrogation room, the door to the observatory swung open, and Parrish stepped in. In addition to Ian and Watts, also present were TPD Detective Isaac Webb, Dr. Suki Ralston, an FBI Behavioral Analyst, commonly known as a profiler, and two other special agents who’d been assigned to the case. Biting his tongue, Ian waited for Parrish to speak since he was very close to blowing his top.
The case’s lead agent propped himself against the wall with his shoulder and crossed his arms. He glared at Ian. “You had to bring the fucking lawyer with you, didn’t you?”
“Damn right,” he growled, “because you’ve got the wrong fucking guy. If I thought Carl had a minute chance of being the killer, I would’ve dragged his ass in here myself.”
“He doesn’t have an alibi, or one he’s willing to share, for any of the kidnappings. As for the murders, we know the suspect is keeping them for anywhere between twenty-four to seventy-two hours, so he could have made the necessary appearances to throw everyone off his scent.”
Ian glanced at the petite, dark-haired beauty at his side. Despite it being the weekend, she was dressed in a business suit with a skirt and four-inch heels that showed off her shapely legs. If Ian wasn’t married and madly in love with his wife, he might have made a play for the woman—although he doubted she was a submissive. “What about you, Doc? What’s your opinion?”
This was Dr. Ralston’s third trip down to Tampa from Quantico to update the profile on the UNSUB, or unknown suspect. She preferred to see the crime scenes herself, but since she was working on several cases, it wasn’t always possible for her to be there. From what Ian had heard, she was one of the best, holding a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology. He’d been impressed with her initial and follow-up analysis of their killer, even if it hadn’t helped them catch the bastard yet.
Ralston’s gaze flashed to Parrish and then back to Ian. “I actually agree with you. I don’t believe Carl Talbot is our UNSUB. Not only is he older than I suspect the killer is, but his occupation and background also don’t match my profile. However, that being said, behavioral analysis is not absolute. It’s a tool, and I’ve been wrong before.” A small smile formed on her attractive, exotic-looking face, and her brown eyes twinkled. “Not often, mind you, but it has happened once or twice. Anyway, I will agree with Agent Parrish that any potential suspect, no matter how slight a chance of being our UNSUB, needs to be eliminated.”
Ian nodded his head and then glanced at Parrish. “Okay. I don’t like it, but I understand. However, I hope you’re still looking for other suspects because there’s no way I’ll believe Talbot is our killer.”
“That’s because you like to beat on women as much as he does.”
Ian roared and lunged at the arrogant man who’d stepped through the open door, but Webb, Watts, and Parrish quickly got between them and held the retired SEAL back, preventing him from killing SAC Stonewall. The prick never knew when to keep his damn trap shut. Ian fought against the hands restraining him while glaring at the smirking agent. “You fucking bastard! You know nothing about me or the fucking lifestyle! Nothing happens in my club that’s not safe, sane, and consensual!” It was the mantra of the BDSM community, and Ian made sure it was followed to the letter in The Covenant.
With a hand on Ian’s chest, Parrish shoved him back. “Easy, Sawyer. Calm the fuck down. I can’t have you hitting a federal agent.” He then turned around and punched Stonewall in the jaw, sending the balding, overweight man flying back onto his ass. Glaring at the local SAC, the pissed-off Dom opened and closed what had to be an aching fist, which now had two split knuckles from the impact. “I, however, have no trouble putting the ignorant asshole in his place since, technically, he doesn’t outrank me.”
Sputtering and holding his sore jaw, Stonewall struggled to get to his feet. “You’re out of here, Parrish! I don’t care what I fucking have to do—you’re out of my jurisdiction today! And I’m filing assault charges!”
The special agent rolled his eyes and waved the other man off. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell it to the director. He hates your guts as much as I do.”
Stonewall’s red face was probably the result of a combination of pain, embarrassment, and high blood pressure as he stormed down the hallway. When Parrish faced the others in the room, the three other agents failed at hiding their grins—Stonewall was their direct supervisor, and no love was lost between the agents and their superior.
Ian snorted and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Damn. Even though I’m still pissed at you, that made my day—hell, probably my week, but don’t tell my pregnant wife that. And while I still want to deck the asshole myself, I don’t feel like doing five years in the slammer.”
Ten minutes later, Ian and Watts left the building and met the other two men in the parking lot. Ian eyed Carl. “You okay?”
“Never better.” The man’s eye roll belied his response.
“Want to tell me who your alibi is? You know, the one you don’t want to expose?” Ian wasn’t stupid. If Carl had someone who could provide him with an alibi, but he wouldn’t divulge who it was, that meant the person was a closeted submissive with a very public persona. The last thing the Dom would do was out someone in the lifestyle unless it was necessary.
Crossing his arms, Carl shook his head. “No, I don’t. And don’t ask me again, Ian. I hope that dickhead agent is looking at someone else besides me for killing those women because I sure as hell didn’t do it.”
Before anyone could respond, Watts’s agency pager went off, and he glanced at the text message. “Shit.” Pulling his keys out of his pocket, he handed them to Ian. “Got a reported hostage situation at the federal courthouse. Take the truck back to your place, and I’ll pick it up when I can.”
As the HRT negotiator ran back into the building to get his gear, Ian pushed the door unlock button on the key fob. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. You coming back with us for the barbecue, or do you want me to drop you off at your place?” he asked Carl. “I assume they didn’t let you drive here.”
“No, they didn’t.” He arched an eyebrow, which only further enhanced his vampire look. Give him fangs, pale his skin a few shades, and put him in his club leathers, and he’d give Bela Lugosi a run for his money. “Sure you want a serial killer suspect at the party?”
Ian slapped the man on the back. “No, but I do want my friend there.”
Smiling, the Dom carefully cut out another newspaper article about his latest masterpiece. To announce he was the artist killing submissives would be the end of his work. No. That couldn’t be allowed. There were too many more women who deserved to be turned into pieces of art. But after he left this world, they would discover all the evidence he was leaving behind, and then everyone would know his name. He would be famous. For generations, they’d hear all about how he held this city in his hands, sending waves of fear throughout the submissives who were always looking over their shoulders, wondering who he was and if they would be his next victim.
Not every submissive was lucky enough to be chosen, to be added to the list of women who had begged him for death. Initially, he hadn’t been choosy—he’d admit that now. But over time, he realized the stronger ones—those who put up a fight—were the most satisfying when he finally broke them. After Masterpiece #4, Naomi Nguyen, he’d started videotaping his time with them, savoring every crack of the whip, every scream of pain, every plea for him to end their suffering. Little did they know, in his world, they didn’t have a safeword. Nothing they could say would make him stop until he decided it was time. He made the rules.
Carefully placing the article in a photo album next to the others, he adjusted his headphones as he listened to the playback of Masterpiece #6 cursing his soul. Unfortunately for her, his soul had been cursed long before he’d ever met her. Closing the album, he set it on the shelf in his living room and then studied the photographs on the coffee table. Each one was of a submissive who’d caught his eye. It was amazing how much information about themselves people put on social media.
