Criminal Behavior--A Thrilling FBI Romance Page 5

  Ethan turned back to the water, collecting his thoughts and emotions as he waited for her to approach.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, his gaze still on the distant sails. He turned slowly to face her, eyeing her leisurely from behind his own dark glasses.

  “I told you I would. I always try to keep my word.” She moved up beside him at the rail. “You’re early, I see.”

  “I didn’t want to take a chance on missing you. I know this can’t be easy. The way things went down between us—”

  She glanced away. “I don’t want to talk about that. That’s not why I’m here. You said you had information about my mother’s murder. I don’t know what you could have possibly dug up after all this time, but here I am, so let’s get to it.”

  He flicked a glance behind her down the crowded walkway. “Not much privacy out here. Are you sure you don’t want a drink or a bite to eat? We could go to Pearlz.”

  “I’m not going to eat or drink with you, Ethan. This isn’t a date.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that it was. Can we at least go across the street to the park and find a quiet bench?”

  Her mouth tightened as she reached up to tuck back a strand of hair. “Fine.”

  They went down the steps and crossed East Bay, keeping a careful distance between them. Ethan could still smell jasmine on the warm breeze that blew across the harbor. The scent and the woman beside him stirred memories he’d tried to keep buried for ten long years, ever since that final showdown when Addie had made it clear she never wanted to see him again. He could still remember the glitter of angry tears in her eyes and the faint quiver of her lip before she’d turned and walked away. They’d both been so young, and Ethan had made so many mistakes. Maybe it was fitting that Orson Lee Finch’s words should once again come back to haunt him. A man like you will always be at war with his emotions. Tormented by what he can’t know. Unable to make peace with his past.

  Addie stopped in front of a bench facing the street. “This okay with you?”

  Her voice snapped him back to the present. “Yes, fine. The shade feels good.”

  She waited until he responded before settling herself at one end of the bench. He joined her, draping one arm across the back. Addie took off her sunglasses and laid them on the seat between them as if to create a physical barrier.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ethan wondered if she were as lost in the past as he was. If she remembered all those moonlit drives, the walks on the beach, the nights spent in her garage apartment off Morrison Drive. Now she lived in a small East Side house with a mortgage, but she wouldn’t like him knowing that.

  He felt her gaze on him and turned to find her eyes slightly narrowed as she studied him. Then she glanced at her watch. “I don’t have long. We should get started.”

  He wanted to ask if she had a date later that evening, but instead he nodded. “To explain the new evidence, we’ll have to talk about the crime scene. I’m sorry. I know that’ll be painful for you.”

  “And for you,” she said, her gaze lifting to meet his. Her expression was not without compassion. “Go on.”

  “Three DNA samples were collected at that scene. Your mother’s, my father’s and a third blood sample that was never identified.”

  “Both the police and FBI concluded the unidentified DNA had been in the alley before the murder.”

  “A reasonable explanation, but that sample has always tormented me, even though nothing ever turned up in the databases.”

  “It was your obsession,” Addie murmured.

  She would remember, because she’d suffered the consequences of that obsession. “My father’s erratic behavior at the time of his arrest and his subsequent mental breakdown made it all too easy to accept him as the murderer, especially since his abilities as a profiler enabled him to mimic the Twilight Killer’s MO. That MO included things that hadn’t been released to the public at the time. The staging of the bodies, for example. But my father wasn’t the only one who had access to that information.”

  “You’re leaving out the most damning pieces of evidence,” Addie said. “Not only was James Merrick’s DNA found at the crime scene, the murder weapon was located two blocks from his hotel and his bloody clothing was found in the hotel dumpster.”

  “My father was a brilliant man. He knew the criminal mind better than anyone of his time. It’s hard to imagine he would make such careless mistakes.”

  “But that was his whole defense,” Addie reminded him. “He wasn’t in his right mind. You said yourself his behavior was erratic at the time of his arrest and he subsequently suffered a complete mental breakdown.”

  An exasperated edge crept into Ethan’s tone despite his best efforts at neutrality. “Those discoveries were too convenient. If he still had enough rational thought to remove the murder weapon from the crime scene, why dispose of it in such an obvious location rather than tossing it in the harbor? Why not burn the bloody clothing? None of this has ever made sense to me.”

  “What puzzles you the most?” Addie demanded. “That he was careless in disposing of evidence or that he killed my mother in cold blood?”

  That was blunt.

  Ethan inwardly winced. The meeting wasn’t going well. Far from breaking down barriers, he had forced her to put up more walls. She was withdrawn and defensive, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake coming to her with what he’d found. Who else would believe him, though? Whom could he trust to help him dig for the truth if not the victim’s child?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get into any of that. I just wanted to remind you about the third DNA sample.”

  She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Got it. Keep going.”

  “Two weeks ago, I received an email from a genealogist here in Charleston who claimed she’d cross-referenced the third DNA sample against a number of public databases. She got a match.”

  Addie whirled, her eyes going wide with disbelief. “What?”

  Ethan nodded. “Thousands of those databases exit, created mostly by people who post their DNA profiles online in the hopes of finding long-lost relatives. Biological mothers and adopted children, for example.”

  “Now that doesn’t make any sense to me,” Addie said. “I don’t mean the part about the databases or long-lost relatives. I’m talking about the sample itself. How would a genealogist get her hands on DNA evidence that’s been in police custody for over twenty-five years?”

  “I think she or someone close to her had a connection in the police department.”

  Addie frowned. “You think a cop gave her the sample?”

  “She may have had it for years with no way to check for a match. These public databases are fairly new technology.”

  “Did you ask her where she got the sample?”

  “Yes, but she was guarded. She refused to provide details through email or over the phone. She insisted I come to Charleston to meet with her in person.”

  “And that didn’t set off any alarm bells for you?”

  “Her credentials checked out. She said she needed to be discreet because if anyone found out about her research, her life could be in danger.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “I didn’t at first. I thought she was exaggerating to coerce my cooperation. We emailed back and forth a few times, and then the correspondence just stopped. I told myself to let it go. No good could come from digging all that up again, but—”

  “You couldn’t.”

  He shrugged. “When she didn’t answer my emails, I made some inquiries. I found out she’d been killed in a hit-and-run two days after she first made contact with me.”

  Addie stared at him for the longest moment. Then she asked in a strained tone, “What was her name?”

  “Naomi Quinlan. She taught night courses on genealogy research at the
community college. She was struck while walking home from class one evening.”

  “Quinlan, Quinlan,” Addie muttered. “I know that name. I remember that hit-and-run. It happened right off King Street. I caught the call, but another detective was already on the scene by the time I got there. It was bad. The impact was so severe the coroner said she probably died instantly. There were no witnesses, nothing at the scene or in the victim’s history to support premeditation. We assumed the driver was under the influence and lost control of the vehicle.”

  “The driver has never been found?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “You said you caught the call. Why didn’t you lead the investigation?”

  “Like I said, another detective was already on the scene, so I backed off because I was being transferred out of the Investigations Bureau, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “New assignment.”

  “So you never followed up on the hit-and-run?”

  “I had my hands full trying to clear the active cases on my desk.” But remorse flashed in her eyes before she turned to stare at the street.

  “I understand,” Ethan said. “Never enough hours in the day. When I tried to press Naomi for the name of the DNA donor, she reminded me that careers had been built on the Twilight Killer case and on my father’s subsequent arrest. If either investigation was discredited by a new piece of evidence, a lot of important reputations would be tarnished.”

  “That sounds a bit dramatic,” Addie said.

  “I thought so, too. Right up until the time she turned up dead.”

  Addie frowned. “You don’t know that her death was related to the DNA match. That hit-and-run could have been nothing more than a tragic accident. The driver panicked and fled. Coincidences do happen, you know.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

  She looked annoyed. “Okay, let’s break it down. Naomi Quinlan claimed she got a hit from a public database, but she wouldn’t provide you with any of the details. She wouldn’t tell you how she obtained the DNA sample or the name of the donor match. Isn’t it possible she was just messing with you, Ethan? There are a lot of sick people in this world. I still get anonymous letters around this time of year. And now, with all the hoopla surrounding the twenty-fifth anniversary, I expect crackpots will be crawling out of the woodwork.”

  Ethan’s voice sharpened. “You get anonymous letters? What do they say?”

  Addie tucked back her hair. “Nothing important. What matters is this woman’s motive and her timing. Why now, with the anniversary looming? Is it possible she wanted to inject herself into a famous case for the notoriety? You are James Merrick’s son. She wouldn’t have had to do much digging to find you, even with the name change. It’s just all very curious—convenient, to use your descriptor—that she was able to get a match when CODIS has never turned up a single hit.”

  “If the unsub doesn’t have an arrest record, he or she wouldn’t be in any LE database,” Ethan said.

  “True. But why would someone who left DNA at a murder scene knowingly allow their genetic profile to be publicly cataloged?”

  “I’ve given that a lot of thought,” Ethan said. “The unsub may not have realized he’d been wounded. Adrenaline blocks pain, and a thrill kill produces euphoria. Sometimes an almost fugue state of rapture. And remember, the third blood sample was never made public, so the unsub had no reason to believe his DNA could be traced back to the crime scene.”

  “You have given this thought.”

  “Yes, and having said all that, I think there’s a more logical explanation. Naomi Quinlan’s hit was only a partial match. Familial DNA.”

  “That’s a slippery slope,” Addie said.

  “For law enforcement, yes. Some states are more stringent about such searches than others. They require that the criminal and the person in the database share an identical Y chromosome, which means the match is limited to men. But a genealogist is under no such constraint. She could have cast a wide net.”

  “That kind of scattershot approach produces a lot of false positives. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Depends on how closely the samples matched up.”

  Addie scowled at him in the fading light. “You’re playing with fire, Ethan. This is the kind of thing that got us both into a lot of trouble ten years ago. Some days I feel as if I’m still wading out of that mess. What are the chances you’ll forget all about Naomi Quinlan and go back to Quantico?”

  “Zero.”

  She sighed. “I figured. And just what is it you expect me to do?”

  “Nothing. I don’t expect anything from you. I just wanted you to have this information in case—”

  “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

  She said it so fiercely, he almost believed her. “I know you want to believe that justice was served in your mother’s case, but what if it wasn’t? What if her killer is still out there somewhere? Can you live with that possibility?”

  She turned on him in anger. “That’s not a fair question. You’ve given me nothing but supposition. You have no real proof.”

  “That’s why I’m here in Charleston. If proof exists, I’ll find it.” He sat back against the bench, casting a wary glance around the park. He couldn’t detect surveillance, but that didn’t mean they were alone. “I’ve gone over the emails time and again. Naomi Quinlan had a strange way with words and syntax. It’s possible she left clues that I haven’t yet been able to decipher.”

  Addie was still angry. “Do you even realize how that sounds?”

  “The Unabomber was caught by the way he turned a phrase.”

  She merely shook her head and stood. “I’ve heard you out. Now I need to get back.”

  Ethan rose, too. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he stood facing her. “Thanks for coming. Thanks for listening.”

  “Nothing’s changed for me. You need to know that.”

  A breeze blew in from the sea, ruffling her hair as her gaze reluctantly met his. A moment passed, and then another, and still she remained. Ethan’s blood quickened, but he didn’t move toward her. He knew better. It was too soon. And yet...

  “Addie—”

  Her voice slipped out on a whisper. “Don’t, Ethan.” She turned away. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Chapter Five

  Darkness had fallen by the time Addie got home. She parked in the garage and then let herself out the side door to the backyard. The moment she stepped onto the walkway, a motion-detector light came on to illuminate the space between the garage and the house. She wasn’t afraid of the dark. She was a trained LEO, and she was on her home turf. Still, precaution was never a bad thing. Distractions could be deadly. It would be too easy to get preoccupied by Ethan’s disclosures—or, if she were honest, by his mere presence—so she needed to be on guard for any lapses.

  A decade was a long time, and Addie had been over Ethan for most of those years. How could one cling to something that had never been real? She’d fallen in love with Ethan Barrow, not realizing that Ethan Merrick was part of the package. The son of her mother’s killer. Even now their union seemed surreal. How could she not have known what he really wanted from her? How could she not have recognized that his obsession to clear his father’s name was so great, he’d wittingly seduced her into his delusions? Not that she was blameless. At twenty-two and freshly graduated from the police academy, she should have been sharper, her radar more finely tuned. She should have seen right through Ethan Barrow’s deception, but no. One smile, one brooding look, and she’d been lost.

  Everyone’s heart got broken sooner or later. Addie forgave herself for falling for the wrong man. She allowed herself a pass for buying into his lies and deceit. What she could never forgive was her own lies. Her betrayal of the one man who had always had her back.

  You’v
e let me down, Addie. And worse, you’ve let yourself down. I can’t even begin to tell you how disappointed I am in you. You used my computer, my password to access sealed files, and then you allowed classified information to be leaked to the press, calling this department’s integrity into question. If it were anyone else, you would have already been dismissed. But I know your potential and I know, in time, you can be a great asset. I’m willing to look the other way this once, but from now on, your conduct will be exemplary, no exceptions or excuses, and you will work twice as hard as anyone else in your unit. I’m giving you a second chance. The rest is up to you.

  From now on, in my office and at this station, I’m Deputy Chief Cutler, even when we’re alone. Are we clear?

  A hard lesson learned, but Addie had become a better cop, a better person for it. In time, she’d earned the respect of her partner, her captain and the deputy chief, and now she wasn’t about to squander their trust, no matter how much Ethan’s revelations niggled.

  One of the strays she fed stole out of the bushes to greet her, and as Addie bent to pet the still skittish feline, she saw deep red splotches on the walkway. She thought at first one of the cats had been wounded, and her heart catapulted to her throat. In the next instant, she realized the spots were flower petals, crimson and fragrant and every bit as unnerving as drops of blood. She lifted one of the petals to her nose. The scent of magnolia overwhelmed her, and she found herself drowning in dread and old memories.

  She rose, still half crouching, and slipped into the shadows. The cat followed her, rubbing against her legs and meowing for more attention.

  “Quiet,” Addie whispered. She glanced around the yard, senses on full alert. She could hear traffic on a distant street and the trill of some night bird. Sensing her tension, the cat had gone quiet at her feet. Addie remained sequestered for another moment before slipping from the shadows to hurry up the back steps. The door was still locked, and another security light came on, drenching her in illumination. She went back down the steps and circled the house, checking windows along the way until she reached the front entrance. That door was locked as well.