Taken and Tamed (2 page)

As she drove, Cass wondered why she’d ever agreed to this assignment. Exploring the mind of a mafia-type thug didn’t excite her. The guy probably wasn’t capable of any thought deeper than whether to have pepperoni or sausage on his pizza. She loved the challenge of delving into a complex character, making her readers see how a woman could fall in love with someone inherently evil or why a young man would look up to a serial killer as a heroic father figure.

But money was money and these small jobs helped pay the bills. She hoped to save up enough to devote six straight months to finishing the suspense thriller currently lingering on her back burner. She’d come up with a great twist for a female serial killer. Her lead character was the daughter of a hooker who’d been strangled, one of dozens of victims of a criminal who’d never been caught. Bent on her warped need for revenge, the character Cass created murdered every man who tried to bed her.

She’d based the back story on a real serial killer case she found while doing research for one of her books. Eight prostitutes had been strangled in Grand Rapids, Michigan in a single year back in the 1980s, their bodies left in downtown trash dumpsters. The case got very little in the way of press coverage by the strait-laced local newspaper and never made the national news. No one in a position of authority wanted to publicize the fact that Grand Rapids even had hookers, let alone a morgue full of dead ones. Eventually the murders stopped. But the killer was never found.

Cass had learned so much about the mentality of mass murderers over the last few years, she knew she could make one come alive. She would lie in bed at night planning the subtle clues she’d drop for discerning readers to discover, the tiny quirks she’d build into her killer’s personality.

Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, she’d amuse herself casting the lead roles in the blockbuster movie they’d make from her book. Angelina Jolie? The audience would have no problem accepting her as a sinister character with murder in her heart. No, she needed someone outwardly sweet, someone they’d never suspect as a stone-cold killer. Maybe Sandra Bullock. Or she could draw in a younger audience with someone totally unexpected like Zendaya.

She pulled into a rest stop, dug her laptop out of the huge leather carryall on the seat beside her, and made a few notes for her next chapter. Putting it aside, she hopped out of the car to stretch her legs.

It was a beautiful day for a drive. Trees covered with pastel blossoms dotted the soft green landscape, coaxed into bloom by the April sun. Cass had abandoned the gray skies and slushy snow-covered streets that Chicago called early spring long ago. She’d moved to Charlotte when she and Trent got married. He left, she stayed. One decision she’d never regretted. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, breathing in the sweetly scented air. Life in the South suited her just fine.

Two hours later, she pulled into the lower level of the parking garage next door to the Federal Building in downtown Atlanta. Slipping on the black blazer, she grabbed her shoulder bag and headed for the elevator, mentally preparing herself for the ordeal ahead.

An armed security guard stopped her in the lobby of the sixth-floor suite of offices for the North Georgia district of the U.S. Marshals service.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“My name is Cass Newcombe. I’m here to interview Zander Coleman.”

He consulted a clip chart. “Oh, yes. Marshal Jacobs will be escorting you to him. Have a seat.” He turned aside, murmuring something into a small mike attached to his collar.

Cass settled on one of the hard plastic chairs lined up along one wall and looked around. Typical government décor, which was to say no décor whatsoever. Bland beige walls enlivened with yellowing federally mandated posters and notices that nobody ever read. She busied herself with a favorite mental exercise. How would she describe the guard to make him come alive in a reader’s mind?

Two minutes later, as she searched her mental thesaurus for the perfect word to describe a once-hard fifty-year-old body sadly gone to flab, the double glass doors across the room flew open. A surprisingly small woman strode into the lobby. Somewhere in her mid-forties, she wore a navy jacket over a no-nonsense white cotton blouse, black polyester slacks, and gray running shoes—with neon pink laces. Not exactly standard Fed attire for pursuing your common criminal. Cass let her eyes travel up, away from the shoes. Fluffy blond hair, soft blue eyes, pink lipstick in a color only one shade less vibrant than her shoelaces.

She offered a hand. “Katherine Jacobs.”

Cass stood up and shook it. A long time ago, she’d attended a women’s power luncheon where the speaker spent a great deal of time discussing the importance of a firm handshake for a woman in business. She even made all of them stand up and practice shaking hands with everyone else at their table. Apparently Katherine had similar training along the way, because her handshake was every bit as decisive as that of a CEO.

“Cassandra Newcombe. I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but you’re not what I pictured as a U.S. Marshal.”

“Yeah. I’m not what most of our ‘clients’ picture either.” Katherine grinned, waving a hand at her attire. “The jacket and black pants are strictly for the office. Usually I’m in jeans or sweats. It’s useful to look like a clerk at the checkout counter or a soccer mom when I’m doing a routine maintenance visit on someone we’ve placed in the witness protection program. The last thing new residents trying to blend into the neighborhood need is a six foot three guy with dark glasses and a navy blue suit showing up on their doorstep in the middle of the afternoon while the folks next door are peeking out behind the curtains.”

Cass smiled back. “I never thought about that but it makes sense.”

“Follow me. We’re doing this interview in a private room the DOJ offered us in their suite downstairs.”

Katherine led the way back down in the elevator. Cass caught the marshal giving her the once-over in the elevator’s mirror. She knew her black open-toed heels with the fire engine red toenails peeking out didn’t square with the conservative black blazer and tailored slacks she had on. Neither did her flowing mane of copper hair shot with streaks of gold, thanks to a very expensive salon that was her one indulgence.

“I must say, you’re not what I imagined either,” Katherine remarked, without a trace of embarrassment at having been caught staring. “I read your bio. You’ve interviewed some pretty tough characters.”

“They weren’t choirboys, that’s for sure. But I bet you’ve got some great stories you could tell.” Into her interviewer mode, Cass automatically turned the conversation away from herself. Katherine obliged, sharing a few funny anecdotes that Cass suspected she dragged out whenever asked about her work. Carefully couched to entertain without divulging a single substantive detail about herself or her work.

They stopped at a lower floor where Katherine flashed her badge at an armed guard who could have been a twin to the one upstairs. Must be something about trading a life of action for hanging out all day in a sterile lobby that made a man turn to meatball subs for comfort. He took her enormous shoulder bag over to his desk and pawed through it, piling the contents in front of him and inspecting every item thoroughly before replacing it in the bag. Katherine made small talk but Cass had a feeling the woman was studying her the whole time for any hint of nervousness or undue impatience. She didn’t take offense. In her line of work, the marshal must have to consider every person she saw as a potential threat to the life of her witness.

After what seemed like hours, the guard handed it back and buzzed them through the door, where they were met by another man. Cass sized him up. Finally someone who matched her preconceived idea of a Fed. Hefty build, all muscle. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, black tie. Sensible black dress shoes. No smile.

“I’m Agent Smith.”

Sure you are,
Cass thought.
And I’m J.K. Rowling
.

Katherine introduced her and he led them down a series of brightly lit hallways lined with solid doors marked only with numbers. He opened #427 and ushered them in. The room inside was bare except for a rectangular metal table and four straight-backed wooden chairs. The single sparkling clean window offered a birds-eye view of blossoming cherry trees lining the street below. Cass couldn’t help noticing there was no way to open it.

Other than the sexy dark stubble on his face and the expensive charcoal suit he wore, the lone guy sitting at the table inside could have passed for a Fed himself. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed. Big and solid with wide shoulders, like a linebacker. Dark hair cut short with military precision, square jaw, the planes in his face so sharp they could have been chiseled out. Expressionless deep blue eyes looking back at her, impossible to read. This guy would be one hell of a poker player.

The well-cut suit hid his body but Cass had a feeling there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on it. She swallowed hard. He could have stepped straight out of last night’s personal trainer fantasy. Tough. Hard. And definitely hot.

He lounged on the unforgiving chair, looking as comfortable as if he’d been at home on his leather recliner in front of a big-screen TV with a cold beer in his hand. That is, if he sat around at home in handcuffs.

“Zander Coleman, I’d like you to meet Cassandra Newcombe. Cass will be interviewing you for a new true-crime web magazine. I believe you already signed the release.” Katherine gave them both one of her engaging grins. “To tell you the truth, I think it’s owned by a nephew of the assistant director. I can’t think of any other reason why the guys in charge would allow an interview with someone about to be ushered into our supposedly super-secret witness protection program.”

Cass had been in enough of these situations. She knew better than to reach out to shake hands with him. There would be no physical contact allowed between her and her subject, handcuffed or not.

Katherine pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and motioned for Cass to take a seat before sitting down next to her. “I’ll be joining you for the entire interview. I hope that’s all right,” she added, turning to Cass.

“It’s fine. I’m used to having a security detail present when I work. But if you don’t mind, maybe you could pull your chair over there for now,” Cass replied, waving to a corner near the window. “You can see both of us clearly, but Mr. Coleman and I won’t feel quite as much like we’re on our first date, being chaperoned by my aunt Maude.”

Pulling out the line she always used to establish the first tentative bond with a subject, she flashed him a warm smile, making it clear she wasn’t on the same plane as his guards.

* * *

Zander Coleman sat up a little straighter, sizing her up. Intelligent brown eyes, strong cheekbones. Wide mouth—perfect for sucking a hard dick. Shoulder-length shiny reddish-brown hair, shot with streaks of gold.

And that body. He gave it a slow once-over, starting at the bottom. Sexy black heels that made her long legs look even longer. Every guy knew shoes like that weren’t made for taking long walks in the park. When he saw a woman in a pair of shoes like that, all he could think about was how she’d look if she didn’t have anything on
but
those shoes.

The legs in question ended in full hips curving into a narrow waist. He couldn’t see her ass, but judging from the rest of her he’d bet it was fine. The severe black blazer she had on did nothing to hide a magnificent pair of tits, outlined by the form-fitting white t-shirt she wore underneath. He stared straight at them, gauging her reaction. She never attempted to close her jacket, simply leaned back in her seat directly across the table, letting the jacket fall open a little further. No annoyed frown, no “Hey, my eyes are up here.” He smiled. The lady was definitely playing him.

Classic moves straight from the good cop–bad cop book, but with a little twist. That seemingly offhand remark laden with sexual innuendo, delivered with a very feminine smile. Designed to create a personal connection—with his cock. The fuck-me shoes. The no-nonsense blazer pretending to hide a set of boobs that would have done a Hooters waitress proud. After being locked up for a long time, the average sex-starved psycho would buy into the whole package, letting his imagination run free.

His smile deepened. He could play too.

“Why would you need a chaperone?” His voice dropped, took on a rough note. “Does your daddy think you’re a naughty girl who puts out on the first date?”

She laughed. “Daddy has no idea how naughty I am.”

This one didn’t rattle easily. His opinion of her went up a notch. When the subject first came up a few weeks ago, he thought the whole idea of sitting through an interview was stupid. But what the hell. He had nothing better to do right now. If the lady wanted to indulge in her version of oral sex, he’d oblige.

“Naughty girls get punished.” He saw her eyes widen a little at that and knew he’d hit a hot button. She glanced at the marshal sitting off to the side before replying.

“You like to punish? Is that how you got into your… line of work?” Her tone may have been playful, but Zander recognized she was all business underneath. Already trying to peel away the edges of the mask of sanity worn by every psychopath.

“What I do isn’t always work, Ms. Newcombe. In fact, sometimes it can be fun.
Really
naughty girls like it when I punish them.”

She squirmed a little in her chair, just the tiniest move, and Zander knew he had her pegged. In his profession, he’d become a master at reading the reactions of a subject. This one projected an air of confident, even blatant, sexuality. But underneath he sensed a deeply guarded secret. Probably one with a tinge of shame tied to it. If they were alone, he’d home in on that, exploit her weakness. That’s how he’d become successful at his craft.

She ignored his last comment. “Please, call me Cass. May I call you Zander?” He nodded once and she went on. “Let me tell you a little about how
I
work, Zander. I don’t believe in using a tape recorder during our sessions. I think it hampers freedom of expression.”