Broken Dolls (A Jefferson Winter Thriller) (5 page)

She drained her glass, pulled her coat on, grabbed her bag and headed outside. The pavements were still white, but the world had lost that magical, romantic glow. Now it just looked desolate and empty. The snow had stopped but the wind was still there. It whipped at her face and stung her skin.

The cold air hit Rachel straight away and two glasses of wine suddenly felt like four. Her head went woolly, her limbs felt lighter. She suddenly felt stupid. She
was
stupid. Stupid for believing that good things could happen to her. This whole evening was one she just wanted to forget in a hurry.

Rachel glanced right then left. There was no sign of Tesla, no sign of anyone. She turned right and hurried towards the Tube station. She just wanted to be home now, curled up in bed, cosy and warm. Someone shouted out behind her, the voice muffled by the snow but still loud in the silence. Rachel turned and saw a man about thirty metres away. He had his hands on his hips, like he’d been running and was trying to catch his breath.

She noticed the trench coat straight away. Black, knee-length. It was too dark to make out the colour of his hair, but Rachel thought it was brown. Hoped it was. The man started towards her and by the time he’d covered fifteen metres, Rachel saw he was smiling. Five metres later and she could see it was a very nice smile. Charming, relaxed, friendly, everything you’d want in a smile. And then he was standing right in front of her and she couldn’t believe her luck. He was handsome enough to have been an actor. He would have looked great up on the big screen.

‘I am so sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Work was manic and to top it all I’ve managed to lose my mobile. I had no way of contacting you to tell you I was running late. I’m just glad I caught you in time.’

The accent was cultured and polished, the voice deep and sexy. Leather gloves, a black wool scarf, classy shoes. Brown eyes.

‘It’s okay,’ Rachel said.

‘No it’s not. It’s anything but okay. You must have thought I’d stood you up.’

Rachel smiled. ‘It crossed my mind.’

‘I need to make this up to you. Have you ever eaten at The Ivy?’

‘Don’t you need to book like six months in advance?’

‘I know someone who works there, and I’m guessing with this weather they’ve probably had some cancellations. Look, I’m parked just around the corner. Let me buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do.’

‘Okay. But I need to ask something first.’

‘Fire away.’

‘What’s your name? Your real name?’

Another smile. This one as warm and charming as before. ‘Adam.’

‘Well, Adam, my name’s Rachel, and it’s great to meet you at last.’

Rachel held her hand out and they shook. His grip was firm but gentle and his touch sent little bursts of fireworks shooting through her nervous system.

Adam’s Porsche was parked down a nearby side street. He frowned when he saw the parking ticket stuck to the windscreen. Then he peeled it off and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

‘One of those days,’ he said with a shake of his head.

He held the door open and Rachel slid into the passenger seat. She felt sophisticated and elegant, like Audrey Hepburn in one of those old black-and-white movies. Jamie never opened doors for her. Adam gently closed the door, locking her in with the smell of leather and a hint of aftershave. Rachel was grinning to herself. Good-looking and a great sense of humour. Two for two.

Adam climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled his door closed. Rachel barely saw his arm move. It was just a blur in her peripheral vision. She felt a stinging sensation in her thigh and looked dumbly at her leg, looked at Adam. She saw the syringe, saw his expression change from charming to predatory. She grabbed for the door handle but it flapped uselessly in her hand. She reached for the button to unlock the door but noticed that it had been removed. Her limbs felt like they were made from lead and she couldn’t move her arms. A ton weight pushed her deep into the seat. Her mind was screaming but nothing came out of her mouth.

‘Hello Number Five,’ Adam whispered.

8

The bar at the Cosmopolitan Hotel was sleek and completely devoid of character. Lots of polished wood and polished chrome and smooth, shiny leather. Artfully placed lights created strange shadows and made the leaves of the fake plants glow. Computerised versions of Christmas classics played quietly in the background. The sparse scattering of Christmas decorations wasn’t worth the effort. There was a piano tucked away in the corner. According to the sign behind the bar, Tuesday night was jazz night.

Half a dozen customers were scattered among the tables, two pairs and two singles, mostly business people whose schedules had meant they were stranded here for a night or two. Plenty of laughter and chat, and plenty of drinking. The blonde girl behind the bar was pretty and bubbly and smiled a lot. Early twenties with an Eastern European accent. I ordered a whisky and sat down at the nearest empty table, rattled the ice cubes around the glass and took a sip. The alcohol made my throat burn.

One of the singles stood out because she kept stealing glances in my direction. She’d been here when I arrived, sitting quietly on her own at the table that gave the best view of the room. I drank my whisky and watched her from the corner of my eye, waiting for her to make her move. She gave it another five minutes before she stood up and made her way over.

She was an inch or so shorter than me, somewhere around the five-eight mark in flat shoes, and she moved with the self-contained, fluid grace of a dancer. She was absolutely stunning. Long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Her body was to die for and whether this was the result of good genes or regular, vigorous workouts, I neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was the end result, and that end result was spectacular.

She put her glass on the table, pulled out the chair opposite me, then sat down and got comfortable. Head tilted slightly to the left, she checked me out. She made no attempt to disguise what she was doing. She started at my head and worked her way down to the tabletop, her eyes moving from left to right, like she was reading a book.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘I’m thinking you’re not a businesswoman.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m wondering why the hell you’d want to be a cop.’

She smiled at that. ‘My dad was a policeman, and his dad, and his dad. I was supposed to be a boy.’

‘I take it he got over his disappointment,’ I said.

‘He’s very proud of me.’ She looked at me again. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

‘In what way?’

‘Your file says you’re thirty-three.’

‘I’ve got a file?’

A nod. ‘You’ve got a file.’

‘I am thirty-three.’

‘You look older. It’s probably the hair. You didn’t have white hair in the file photo.’

‘That’ll be all the stress and worry,’ I said.

‘You could do with a haircut and a shave, too.’

‘And I guess I should be wearing a suit and shades. Once a G-Man always a G-Man. Is that it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Did Hatcher send you to babysit me?’

There was a slight hesitation. She broke eye contact and glanced left, a classic tell that indicated she was accessing the part of her brain where lies and half-truths were made. ‘Not exactly,’ she said.

‘So why are you here?’

Her blue eyes locked onto mine again. ‘Curiosity. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ A wry grin. ‘Jefferson Winter, the big-shot American profiler.’

‘How did you know I’d be here?’

‘Hatcher’s told me a few war stories about the time he spent out at Quantico. Based on that I figured the bar of the hotel you were staying at was as good a place as any to start looking.’

‘Good call.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask my name?’

‘I already know it.’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘You’re Detective Sergeant Sophie Templeton,’ I said.

Her face registered surprise, but she recovered quickly, cool and confident and back in control. The change was almost instantaneous, so quick you could have imagined it. Templeton was obviously someone who didn’t get knocked off her game easily. Hatcher had mentioned her a couple of times, so it wasn’t that difficult to put two and two together.

I nodded to her half-empty glass. ‘Can I get you another?’

Templeton shook her head. ‘Thanks, but no. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’

‘I can’t twist your arm?’

‘You could try, but I have to warn you I came out on top in all my self-defence classes.’

Her comment sparked a whole load of interesting mental images. ‘I wasn’t being literal,’ I said.

‘And I was joking.’

I smiled and she smiled back. It was a great smile, one that reached all the way from her mouth to her eyes and back again.

‘You’ve only just got here,’ I said.

‘It’s a school night. I should have been home ages ago. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Not that that’s anything new. Every day’s a busy one. Particularly at the moment.’

‘We’re going to catch him.’

‘And you’re sure about that.’

‘Absolutely positive. No doubt about it whatsoever.’

‘Are you really as good as Hatcher says?’

I reached for my glass and took a sip. ‘And that’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it? So how did it go down? Did you all get together in the office and draw straws?’

Templeton drank some of her drink, a small sip followed by the tiniest licking of her lips. Jack Daniel’s and Coke, judging by the smell and colour. ‘I’m not here to check you out, Winter.’

I raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

‘Okay, I am here to check you out. But, like I said earlier, I’m doing this for my own curiosity. I’m not reporting back to anyone.’ She paused and fixed me with those big blue eyes. ‘Nice deflection, by the way. Avoid the question by putting me on the defensive.’

A shrug and a smile. Busted.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Back to
my
question.’

‘I can’t answer it.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Can’t. It’s a trick question. The problem is that I don’t know what Hatcher thinks of me.’

‘He says you’re the best profiler in the business.’

‘In that case, he’s right. I am the best.’

Templeton laughed. ‘You don’t do modesty then.’

‘Modesty has nothing to do with it. You’ve checked my track record. The stats speak for themselves.’

‘How do you know I’ve checked your track record?’

I raised an eyebrow again, said nothing. This time it was Templeton’s turn to shrug and smile. She held her hand out over the table and we shook. Her skin was soft and warm, her grip confident yet feminine. That was good. She obviously didn’t feel the need to overcompensate.

She smiled that great smile and said, ‘It’s good to meet you, Winter. It’s going to be interesting working with you.’

9

Templeton disappeared into the lobby and I was left wondering what the hell that was all about. I felt like I’d just done an exam or a job interview, but I had no idea what for, or why. For a while I just sat there nursing my drink and thought about Templeton. I’d ruled out the idea of anything happening between us the moment she walked over to my table and every male in the room had checked her out, both the married ones and the single ones.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want anything to happen, I was just being realistic. The bottom line: women like Templeton didn’t happen to guys like me. If we’d been at college, Templeton would have been the head cheerleader and I would have been the straight-A student who ended up giving the valedictorian speech. Cheerleaders went for the jocks, they didn’t go for guys who could count without using their fingers, or read without moving their lips. It was one of those laws that governed the universe, an unbreakable rule that made sure everything and everyone slotted into their rightful places.

When the music finally got too much, I drained my glass and headed upstairs. My suite at the Cosmopolitan was nothing special. On a scale of one to Vegas it scored a four. The decoration was as bland as the bar downstairs. The walls were white. So were the towels and the bedlinen. The sofa and chairs were cream. White rugs on the beige carpet, and black-and-white framed photographs on the walls. It was like all the colour had been leached from the room.

For the past eighteen months since the execution, home had been a series of hotel suites, each one as anonymous as this one. Whenever I take on a case I always insist on a suite instead of a room. This is non-negotiable. During my time with the FBI I’d slummed it in too many cheap motel rooms. This suite was my sanctuary, somewhere to escape to even if it was just for a few hours. The last thing I wanted was a bed where you could feel the springs, and a shower that didn’t work, and walls so thin you could hear the neighbours breathing.

Everything I needed to get through the day was in my suitcase. It was still packed because there was no point unpacking. I’d be in London for a few days, a week max, then I’d move on to the next hotel. Off chasing the next monster. I still owned a house in Virginia. It had two bedrooms and a living room big enough for my Steinway baby grand not to look out of place. Once a week someone went in and checked the place hadn’t been burgled, and once a month a groundskeeping firm tidied up the yard. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t sold it. I guess everyone needs a place to call home, even if it is only a token effort.

My second condition when I take a case is that the suite comes with a complimentary bottle of single malt. The blended stuff is fine for everyday use, but when it comes to unwinding you can’t beat a good single malt. Twelve-year-old is acceptable, fifteen-year-old is better than acceptable, and anything older is a bonus. Hatcher had come up with an eighteen-year-old Glenlivet that ticked all the appropriate boxes. I wired my portable speakers to my laptop, found Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, and hit play. Then I poured a drink and took a sip, savouring the smoky, peaty flavour.

Eyes closed, I let the beauty of the music wash over me. Mozart has the power to transport me into another world, a world that’s light years from the one I usually inhabit. This is a place of beauty and life rather than a place of torture and screams, a place of hope rather than despair. My laptop contained the best performances I’d managed to find of Mozart’s work. Everything the great man had ever written was on there. My goal was to own the defining performances of every single piece. It was a work in progress, a lifelong task.