Set Up For Love (2 page)

Grayson shot him a sharp look. She slipped her hand into his open leather jacket. He caught a whiff of an airy jasmine fragrance as she withdrew his laminated
San Francisco Chronicle
identification card. Her touch was light and as swift as a pickpocket’s.

She studied the I.D. card, and then stared up at him. Their gazes locked and held for several seconds. He felt an odd intensity charge between them. “So…you’re name’s
really
Dane Clark.” There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone. Her gaze intensified as though she had just learned something significant. “And you’re a reporter—one of those aggressive pains-in-the-posterior who sometimes finagle, perhaps even by devious means, inside knowledge about murders.” She wrinkled her nose, as though reporting the news was a crime, too.

He swallowed, feeling the noose tightening around his neck. “Sorry,” he said, lowering his voice to a more respectful tone. “When I got here I found her...like that.” He paused and studied Grayson’s face. “You’re not buying any of this, are you?”

The Fed called Murphy shot him a narrow-eyed warning. He hated this. Grayson was adept at pushing his buttons with a hard-hitting directness that made him act like the violent psycho who did this. Dane took a breath, then lowered his voice to a calmer, more rational tone. “She was just a kid.”

“Kid, huh? Did you pay her to pose for you? In the nude, perhaps?”

“What?” The icy look of tenacity in Grayson’s oval face should’ve warned him that she wasn’t through going for his jugular.

“You’re on the studio lease as a video director, Mr. Clark.” Grayson shoved a search warrant under his nose. “See your name—see the address? No mistake.”

Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He looked where she pointed. His name was listed on the warrant right after the main lease-holder, Professor Craig Mansell, and followed by the other two video makers, Gordy Angelo and Sammy Newcomb, Gordy’s assistant at the studio and Dane’s assistant at work.

“I’m just one of the lessees. The professor is the prime leaseholder.”

“You think he did this?”

“God, no.” Dane knew it took time to get a warrant from a judge so it was clear that even though they didn’t know for sure about the murder until now, this bust had been planned in advance. “You didn’t know about Charmaine’s murder until you and your stormtroopers pushed your way in here. What brought you to this particular studio?”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. What else did they know? And why had the killer pegged him as the fall guy?

Grayson waited while he scanned the rest of the document. Her nearness disturbed him. No woman had ever bothered him more. “Okay, so you have a warrant and it looks legal.”

“Did you doubt that?”

“No, Sir…Ma’am.” A thorough person like Agent Grayson wouldn’t slip up. She gave him a copy of the document and returned the original to the black canvas bag that dangled from her shoulder.

“Help yourself, look around.” His throat felt parched. “I can’t stop you anyway, and I have nothing to hide.”

Instantly, she was in his face, eyeball to eyeball. “If that’s so, Mr. Clark, why did you hide behind your press I.D. as though you had no connection to this place—this so-called business?”

“I tried. You kept cutting me off. Besides, would you have believed me if I told you I bought into the lease to get an inside line on the Snuff-Video Killer? That’s been my prime focus ever since the bodies started turning up.”

She pivoted away. Shimmering caramel-brown hair brushed her shoulders. With her gloved hands, she began to dig through a file box. Her tactic didn’t fool Dane. This was a typical stall to catch him off guard.

Agent Lewis, the lanky Fed who wore the male prototype of Grayson’s FBI dark suit, opened drawers and dug through the contents with a gloved hand and a determined frown on his face. Dane knew if there was anything there to make him look bad, this hotshot Fed would find it. If Grayson didn’t find it first.

Dane shifted from one foot to the other. The handcuffs dug into his wrists. “Hey, may I sit?”

Grayson whirled and faced him. Blue eyes, as impenetrable as Arctic ice, bore into his. “Yes, Mr. Clark, please sit.” She flipped open her small notebook again. “I need specifics about this so-called-friendship between you and Ms. Du Bois.”

The knot in the pit of his stomach tightened. If he told Grayson how much he cared for Charmaine it might be twisted into something it wasn’t and make him look even guiltier. Yet how could he avoid it? “We met in a video class at the university. Did a few projects together, struck up a friendship. She needed someone older to rely on for advice.”

Grayson’s expression didn’t change. He couldn’t tell whether she believed him or not.

“And what about your needs?”

Her question hit him like a judo chop to the gut. He stretched his neck in resistance to the collar that cut into his flesh. “I never had a sister, so I liked being looked up to like a big brother.”

“Boosted your ego, right?” Her eyes brightened as though alerted by something he’d said.

“Whatever you call it, it felt good.” His jaw muscle tightened and began to pulse hotly. She’d stripped his nerves raw and he resented the hell out of it. Dane took a deep breath. “She was a sweet kid.”

Grayson tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. Something he noticed she did often. It softened her. Momentarily…deceptively.

Dane shifted his weight, aware that with every answer he sank deeper into trouble. “If I ask for an attorney, will it make things worse?”

Grayson recorded his statement and scribbled backup notes in shorthand. He cast an uneasy glance at the bloody butcher’s knife, inches from Charmaine’s head. In past murders the killer had always taken the knife. Why not this time? Dane felt bile rise in his throat. At least he’d had enough presence of mind not to touch it. The way things had stacked up against him, it wouldn’t surprise him to learn that the knife had come from his own kitchen. “Look at me,” he said. “There’s no blood-spatter on me.”

She looked him up and down then. Touching the top of her pen to her lips, Grayson asked, “What was it again that Ms. Du Bois said to get you here?”

“She said she had a strong lead that might break the Snuff Video Case wide open.”

Agent Grayson wrote something on the pad and looked up again. Her large, intense eyes were a mesmerizing blue—the kind of eyes that never missed a thing. His mouth felt dry.

“So, using Miss Du Bois’ lead, you planned to solve the case without the help of the police or Feds and scoop the other papers.” Her voice dripped with contempt.

“Sure. Why not?” He wanted to add that he had a better chance of uncovering the killer than her hotshot FBI team who didn’t know an innocent man when they saw him. He clamped his mouth shut.

“You must realize being one of the sub-lessees and a participant in the video business hurts your credibility.” Her searing gaze bore into him.

He licked his dry lips. “It shouldn’t. My involvement started strictly as undercover research for the video news story. I wanted to learn the video-making jargon and make contacts. Then I met the professor. He wanted to lease this building and needed partners. We’re all independent video makers. But none of us could afford all this equipment on our own.” He gestured with his head toward the commercial cameras, lights and painted sets. Along the way I got interested, and it turned into a profitable hobby. I’ve done commercials and several documentaries.”

She narrowed her eyes; sparks of sapphire lights ignited in them. “Maybe you even ventured into the Snuff-Video Game yourself?” Her soft voice carried the impact of a hit with brass knuckles in a velvet glove.

“Exactly.” She leveled her gaze at him for a long moment, then stepped to the video camera aimed toward Charmaine’s body and snatched out the cassette with a gloved hand. “Don’t worry, Mr. Clark, the evidence will speak for itself.”

He swallowed. “Why would the killer leave that behind? The psycho you’re after would take it to enjoy—to sell. It’s got to be part of the setup to implicate me.”

“Will it?” She dropped the cassette into an evidence bag.

He felt himself caught in quicksand and sinking deeper with every word. “If you’re charging me, I want to call my attorney.”

Grayson turned to the fed who had handcuffed Dane. “Murphy, uncuff him and let him make his call. No one’s ever needed an attorney more.”

Dane winced. He wanted to tell Miss Iron Britches just where she could go. With supreme effort, he held his tongue.

The burly fed re-handcuffed Dane’s hands in the front so he could hold the receiver. While making his call, Dane watched Grayson quickly check all the cameras for cassettes or film. Then she searched the filing cabinets.

Her tenacity and determination worried him. He had to keep his head. A man in this situation could easily be railroaded.

With the FBI involved, the story was even
bigger
than he’d imagined. But how could he follow up on it from behind bars?

Dane gripped the telephone receiver. Jack Cornell had to come through for him. He shook his head. Even after being hardened by fifteen years in the newspaper business, it was difficult to believe some sadistic bastard would kill just to get a real murder on video.

When his attorney came on the line, Dane said, “Jack, I’m in big trouble.” He explained his predicament briefly and felt a measure of relief when Jack promised to meet him at the local FBI Office.

“I suppose so. It seems reasonable that he would, doesn’t it?” His sarcasm just slipped out. Her narrow-eyed glance warned that allowing himself even that small satisfaction was unwise.

“Get Mansell on the phone,” she told Agent Murphy. “I want to check all the files.”

Grayson went to Dane’s drab-green cabinet. He started to say that the keys were in his pocket, but before he could get out the words, she slid the drawer open. His heart thudded against his chest—he was certain he’d locked it yesterday.

Jill removed a thick file he’d never seen before. It was stuffed with photos. She shot him a sharp look.

“Blast it, those aren’t mine!” But how could he prove it? “I don’t know how they got in there.” His words hung in the air. Someone had really done a job on him and the situation was getting worse by the minute.”

Chapter Two

Jill glanced up at Dane. New evidence kept cropping up. But his earlier blood-spatter statement hammered at her mind. He was right—the lack of blood-spatter on him or his clothes made his innocence plausible. She inspected his still front-cuffed hands. They were clean, lean and strong-looking. He gestured with long tapered fingers to emphasize his denial.

She lowered her eyes again and slowly thumbed through the photos. With supreme effort she held back a gasp. They were colored glossies of all the murdered women.

Her throat felt tight. Two days ago a Snuff Video cassette had mysteriously turned up on her desk. An untraceable note gave the address where the illegal and deadly films were being made. She already had the warrant in hand when she got the call that evidence of past murders would be destroyed if she didn’t get to the studio fast. She hadn’t expected to walk in on a murder scene. Did finding the arrogant reporter here mean she had her killer?

She thought again of the lack of blood-spatter. But what if there was an explanation for that? The killer they were after was tricky as hell. She flipped her cell open and dialed one of her outside men. “Have someone check all the Dumpsters and trash bins within a mile radius. And call the refuse director to have his men watch out for discarded bloody trauma-unit clothes, plastic sheets, any thing with blood or suspicious red stains.”

Damn it, whoever did this wasn’t getting away with it this time. The trail of violent murders on models had led her down to Los Angeles, across the California state line into Nevada, up into Utah, then unexpectedly back to her hometown, San Francisco, and to this troubling and very uptight reporter.

Although she’d never come face to face with the Snuff Video Killer, she knew a lot about him. He was intelligent, violent and dramatically psychotic. For him, the crime existed in precise detail in his mind, a scene he had to play out in full color, in all its gore and horror. Her job was to use the FBI’s ultimate weapon against him, his own sick mind. This reporter, though understandably hot-under-the-collar, didn’t act psychotic, and he didn’t look like a killer. But then who did? Look at Ted Bundy, the charming college boy type. Some of the most violent murderers looked like the average man on the street. Not that Dane Clark could be described as average. But he was exactly the kind of guy who could pull something like this off—cunning and drop-dead gorgeous. His hard, chiseled features and thick brown hair could easily attract young models. Add to that his towering wide-shouldered build and lean abdomen, and she could well understand how young, inexperienced women could be putty in his hands.