of information. In order to pull off such an elaborate scheme as detailed as an operational art gallery, the UNSUB couldn’t possibly be flying solo. Although she’d never personally been involved, she’d heard the stories of the networks of traveling grifters. They moved around the country duping the elderly, ripping off department stores by returning stolen merchandise for cash refunds and running the classic carnie cons. With the exception of big real estate rip-offs and boiler room scams, cons generally ran penny-ante operations nowhere near as sophisticated as the UNSUB’s game.
She jotted down a reminder to have the art gallery searched by the Bureau’s crime lab technicians, then added another note to have the theater checked out, as well. Private boxes hardly came cheap. No doubt the UNSUB had “borrowed” the box for the night—without the box holder’s blessing.
Sunny continued to question Margo, gathering specific details of the woman’s “dates” with the UNSUB not included in the initial investigation reports. The only date that had been public was the night of the symphony, and for the ten days that followed, the Seducer kept his liaisons private, just as he’d done with his previous victims. In addition to the art gallery scam, there’d been a midnight picnic in the park, a couple of moonlit drives and a few romantic dinners for two at the Wilder estate, with the staff dismissed, at Abbott’s request, of course.
Having taken part in several of the ISU’s specialized training courses in criminal investigation, Sunny understood the best profilers possessed a talent for climbing inside the heads of victim and perpetrator. But what about her victims? How was she supposed to walk in their ridiculously expensive designer shoes when she lacked a basic understanding of how any reasonably intelligent woman could be duped by a con with romance as an M.O.?
Setting her notepad beside her, Sunny looked at Margo, determined to imagine herself as this victim. “You do realize that Abbott intentionally seduced you to gain access to the items he’s stolen from you.”
“Yes,” the older woman agreed, her expression sheepish. “I, too, have come to the same conclusion.”
Sunny let out a pent-up breath. “Ms. Wilder. Margo.” She struggled for compassion when all she could muster was an overwhelming sense of self-directed frustration. “I need you to help me understand how this is possible.”
Duncan cleared his throat, but Sunny chose to ignore him for the moment. Despite what she’d told Caruso upon arriving at the estate, she realized she secretly agreed with his hard-up assessment. But if she wanted to solve the case, then she also understood she had to set her judgments aside. Otherwise she’d never learn what made Tansey Middleton, Maddie Bryson, Joy Tweed, Bettina Manchester, Celine Garfield, Katrina Pescadero, and now Margo Wilder the Seducer’s perfect victims.
Margo’s puffed-up lips twisted into a smile. “Have you ever been swept off your feet?” she asked Sunny. “Or been so completely caught up in a storm of passion all that matters is physical pleasure?”
In a word, no. Rhetorical or not, Sunny wasn’t about to divulge the truth about her own lacking sex life with a material witness. Not after she’d spent the better part of the morning openly flirting with the man seated less than three feet away from her, giving signals to the contrary. In truth, today went on record as a first for her. She’d never considered surrendering to rampant hormones, but the idea held more than a few interesting possibilities.
A few weeks shy of her thirtieth birthday, she’d had exactly three relationships of any great significance in her lifetime. The sex had always been good and she never considered it an issue, but she’d never experienced the kind of passion Margo described.
“Ms. Wilder,” Duncan interrupted, saving Sunny from having to formulate an intelligent response. “We’re going to need every detail of your association with Abbott.”
Sunny turned to stare at him, certain she’d just entered her own personal Twilight Zone—in Sex and the City-esque style. We? What’s this we business?
He must have sensed her apprehension because he turned that lethal gaze in her direction. “If we’re going to catch the UNSUB,” he said, “then we need to know his habits. His quirks. From the way he combs his hair down to the shape of his scars and what he eats for breakfast. The smallest detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem, could be the break we need.”
We. There was that word again. Sunny tried to push aside the warm fuzzy feeling the concept of “we” gave her, and failed. Instead, she concentrated on Margo. But Duncan did have a point—dammit.
“If you would prefer Mr. Chamberlain leave us at this juncture, I’m sure he wouldn’t object.” Sunny prayed the woman would take her up on her offer. Regardless of how immature or hypocritical, the idea of dissecting the intimate details of Margo’s liaison with the UNSUB in Duncan Chamberlain’s presence made her want to squirm.
Upon joining the Bureau, her first assignment had been conducting in-depth background investigations. She’d interviewed countless witnesses and delved into various backgrounds, from the lowest government employee all the way up the ladder to some of the country’s top political officials. As a result, she’d uncovered odd quirks, stranger-than-fiction habits and more than a few bizarre sexual appetites. At first she’d been shocked by the information she’d uncovered, but since she was determined to become a player on the FBI’s team of profilers, she’d conditioned herself to take it all in stride. Violent crime and sexual homicide were hardly a job for the squeamish.
So where the hell had the cool professionalism, the detachment, the composure she’d consciously developed, gone when she needed it most?
“I was his canvas,” Margo blurted.
Sunny’s eyebrows shot upward. “Excuse me?” Certainly, she misunderstood the implication. As much as it pained her to do so in front of Duncan, she asked, “Could you be more specific?”
Margo’s expression remained composed, as if she were about to discuss the last social event she’d attended rather than her sexual exploits with a con man. “I was his canvas,” she repeated. “He liked to paint me with scented oil.”
At a loss for words, Sunny started at the woman. No. She absolutely had not heard what she thought she’d heard. Maybe Margo was making some obscure reference to the night Abbott had taken her to the fake gallery. Yes, that was it, a reference to the art gallery. She hoped.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” Sunny said. “He put scented oil on one of the paintings?”
“He didn’t paint on a traditional canvas,” Margo clarified. “He asked me to be his canvas. At first I was nervous—what he was asking was so…unorthodox—but I must admit, I’ve never experienced anything so completely erotic in my life.”
An image flashed in Sunny’s mind. Marble floors, bronze sculptures, paintings by masters she couldn’t name hanging on unobtrusive-colored walls. And Duncan. His heat, his body surrounding her, pressing her up against the smooth, cool plaster, his hands slowly caressing her breasts…his mouth hot, demanding…
Sunny grew more uncomfortable by the second. Find a way into her head, she reminded herself. Become the victim.
“Was this…technique something he did each time you made love?” she forced herself to ask. “Did he often use…props?”
Margo nodded. Another wistful smile slowly tilted her lips. “Justin was an incredible master at foreplay.”
Against her will, Sunny’s gaze slid to Duncan.
