What, he wondered, was this UNSUB telling them?
He stepped into the bedroom. Suzi’s bed was unmade, the lowered closet doors open. Clothes hung askew; several wire hangers were scattered on the floor in front of the open door. Frowning, he crossed to the closet, staring at the contents, sorting through the facts in his mind.
After their parents’ death, Suzi had become obsessively neat. Disorder had brought her to tears. The shrink he had taken her to had explained that losing her parents had thrown Suzi’s life into chaos. Her eleven-year-old world, which had been safe and predictable, was suddenly, frighteningly out of control. She found comfort in orderliness, the doctor had contended, because orderliness represented a way for her to control her environment.
She had never outgrown it.
She would never have left her things this way, Connor acknowledged. No matter how big a rush she had been in.
Connor turned away from the closet and crossed to the dresser. The lingerie drawer was open. On the right side of the drawer, the sexy stuff was folded neatly—lacy panties, sheer nighties and filmy gowns. Apparently undisturbed. On the left side, in a jumble, were the cotton panties and bras, the slips and panty hose. The serviceable stuff a woman might wear every day, for herself, not a lover.
From outside came the sharp blare of a horn. Connor jumped, the sudden sound catapulting him back to the present. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, then passed a hand over his face, equilibrium returning.
He reached for his tequila, but set it back down without drinking, thoughts returning to Suzi’s death. He ticked off what the scene had told him, reviewing facts he knew by heart. Judging by the attempted cleanup and staging, Suzi’s killer was a highly organized individual. Intelligent. Educated.
Additionally, there had been no signs of a forced entry. Her bed had been unmade, the nightstand light on, her reading glasses neatly folded on top of an open book on the bed. That had led him to believe that the attack had occurred at night and that Suzi had known her killer.
He narrowed his eyes, working to fit the pieces together, looking for the one that was missing, the one that would bring the complete picture into focus. Suzi and the UNSUB had progressed from the foyer to the family room where, judging by the bloodstains, the attack had occurred. The UNSUB had disabled her with the missing fireplace poker, probably with one or several blows to the back of the head.
Connor picked up the shot glass. His hand shook so badly some of the alcohol sloshed over the glass’s rim. He tossed the remainder back, returning to his mental survey. Judging by the clumsiness and indecision he’d found at the scene, the UNSUB wasn’t a seasoned criminal. Nor did Connor believe Suzi’s murder had been planned. Her attacker had seen the opportunity and taken it. After the fact, he had not only tried to clean up the scene, he had tried to hide the crime by taking the body and staging it to look as if Suzi had packed a bag and run off.
Connor swore, the brutally uttered word a shock to the silence. But with everything he knew, he was missing something. Some scrap of evidence, an obvious link. It didn’t make sense.
Connor brought a hand to his eyes, struggling to see past his own emotions, to keep focus on this UNSUB’s signature. Instead, he recalled his and Suzi’s last conversation, a hurried phone call she had made to him at Quantico. One in which she had revealed that she was frightened. One in which she had begged him to come home.
“Con, it’s me. I need your help.”
Not again. Not now. “Suz, can this wait?” Connor glanced at his watch, impatient, overwhelmed by a caseload that seemed to grow with each second that ticked past. “I’m leaving for the airport in twenty minutes and I have about a hundred details to tie up before I go.”
“No! It can’t wait, Con. This time it’s really serious, it’s … I’m seeing this guy and … he, I …” She sucked in a broken-sounding breath. “I found out he’s married.”
His sweet, flighty sister always seemed to attract one kind of loser or another. He bit back a sound
of disappointment, glancing at his watch again. “Oh, Suzi, we’ve been through this already.”
“I know, I know. I’m an idiot. All the signs were there. But I … ignored them. Because I didn’t want to believe it.” Her voice took on a familiar, hysterical edge. “But then I couldn’t ignore it any longer and I … I tried to break it off.”
“Tried?”
“He threatened me, Con! He told me if I left him, I’d never see another man. Never! I’m really scared. You have to come home, you have to!”
He loved his sister. Twelve years her senior, he had raised her after their parents were killed. He was as much daddy to her as brother. But she was grown now and he had a job to do. A life to lead. In his three years with the Behavioral Science Unit, his sister had called with a dozen different crises. And each time he had dropped everything and raced home.
Not this time. The time had come for her to learn to stand on her own two feet. He told her so.
She began to cry, and he gentled his voice. “I love you, Suzi. But me running home every couple of months to fix your life isn’t helping either of us. You have to grow up, baby. The time’s come. “
“But, you don’t understand! This time—”
He cut her off, though it was the hardest thing he had ever done. “I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you when I get back.”
He never spoke to her again.
Connor swore, hatred burning in the pit of his gut—hatred of himself, his mistakes, the bastard she had been seeing. For he was certain Suzi’s married lover was also her murderer.
But the man, whoever he was, had covered his tracks well. A familiar fury built up inside him, one born of guilt, frustration at his limitations and disbelieving horror.
Connor breathed deeply. The taste in his mouth turned, becoming foul, like piss and day-old beer. He knew the type of man who seduced, battered, then in a possessive, jealous rage, killed a bright, beautiful young woman like his sister—he knew the type because he had seen their handiwork all too often.
Connor brought his glass to his lips, hoping to wash away both the taste in his mouth and the images in his head, of Suzi and the countless other victims, of the unimaginable and unthinkable that through his work had become the everyday. Of Joli Andersen and the terror he had seen in her lifeless eyes.
No amount of drink would rid him of the images—he had tried before. The best he could hope for was oblivion.
It would have to do.
His doorbell rang, impeding his progress to that end. Muttering an oath, he stood and made his way to the front door, ready to chew out whatever unfortunate had happened onto his porch.
He flung open the door. Steve Rice stood on the other side.
Connor glared at him. “What?”
“Nice
