Now he was back in Nashville, Tennessee. It was home to a thriving economy and a growing population, which meant the city attracted the best and worst of humanity.
While in law school, he had thrown in an application to the FBI on a lark. It sounded like an interesting job, and he had dreams of carrying a gun and badge and screening for the Hostage Rescue Team. Chase a few bad guys, sharpen his shooting skills, and then eventually head to Wall Street, make bank, meet a smoking-hot wife, and raise a couple of kids. When he was old and gray, he could retire to the family estate on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and maybe write his memoir.
Then fate stepped in and punched Ramsey right in the mouth. Ramsey’s old man, who had been a gentle soul more interested in his birds than the boardroom, had trusted the wrong man. Stuart Kline, a talented lawyer and accountant, had lured his old man into a quagmire of investments that toppled a fortune that had taken three generations to build. Ramsey’s father, unable to face his son and his board of directors, shot himself in the head two weeks after Ramsey graduated law school.
Kline earned only seventeen months of jail time in a minimum-security prison with cable television and conjugal visits.
Newly minted law degree in hand and more pissed off than Ramsey could put into words, he joined the bureau’s white-collar crime division. He knew numbers, understood the legal system, and had grown up in the rarified world of old money.
He had a natural talent for reading people, dissecting their moves, and hearing the meaning behind their words.
Ramsey’s success in white-collar crime had caught the attention of his supervisors, and he had been transferred to the criminal division. He recognized the transfer for what it was. He was a chess piece in a game bigger than white-collar crime. The best press followed the sexier hunt for serial killers, and he had the chops for the work.
The killers he and his handpicked team chased were soulless, narcissistic sociopaths who did unforgivable things to a human body.
Ramsey drove across town and wound his way toward the TBI offices. He found a spot close to the entrance. He shrugged on his coat, brushed the sleeves smooth, and checked his tie in the reflection of the vehicle’s glass. He grabbed his briefcase before entering the building.
He showed his credentials to the TBI officer stationed at reception. “I’m here for Agent Melina Shepard and her supervisor, Agent Carter Jackson.”
The officer called up to the investigative offices and informed him Shepard would be right down. A few minutes later, elevator doors dinged open and a trim woman stepped off. She wore black fitted pants and a white shirt, and her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that brushed her shoulders. Slim hips, muscular thighs and arms, and full breasts all caught his attention in a less-than-clinical way.
In her early to midthirties, she was attractive with deep-olive skin and sharp brown eyes alight with curiosity and hints of annoyance. She was someone who appeared wary by nature and who would have let the facts unfold before she fired the first question. He guessed a deliberate pause had been part of the reason she had survived her attacker last week.
She extended her hand, and he stepped forward to accept it. Long fingers wrapped around his hand and squeezed with surprising strength. “Agent Ramsey. Agent Melina Shepard.”
He held her hand tight, noting the subtle callus likely earned with weight training. “Pleasure.”
“I hear my DNA sample brought you here?” Hers was a husky, rich voice.
“It did.”
“It’s been less than a week. That’s a fast turnaround for the FBI.”
“Your boss is a hard man to ignore.” Jackson had staked his reputation on Shepard’s assessment of the van’s driver, who she believed was a practiced killer. Quantico, Jackson had warned, had better pay attention.
“Yes, he can be.” She was already walking toward the elevators and pressed the button. “Agent Jackson is waiting for us upstairs. He’s finishing up a call.”
“Good.”
The doors opened and they stepped in. She selected the third floor. “Are you going to tell me who I stumbled across?”
“I’ll save the show for when we have Jackson. Will cut down on repetition.”
She regarded him closely. “I stumbled onto a bad one.”
Ramsey had a file filled with pictures of dead women killed by this man. “One of the worst.”
Silent, they rode to the third floor, and when the doors opened, she introduced him to the receptionist and pointed him in the direction of the bathrooms. When he shook his head no, she knocked on a corner door. The nameplate read JACKSON. She poked her head in the door. “Boss? Agent Ramsey is here.”
“Come on in.”
She stepped back, motioned for him to go in first. He stood his ground and waited for her. Annoyance in her gaze appeared again, but she clearly decided there were bigger battles to fight than outdated chivalry.
Carter Jackson ended his call, stood, and unrolled shirtsleeves over muscled forearms that suited a former UT quarterback. Midforties, Jackson had been with TBI over twenty years. He had a solid reputation in the state and at Quantico.
Jackson extended his hand. “Welcome to Nashville.”
Ramsey was met with a strong grip. “Wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Likewise,” Jackson said. “There’s coffee in the conference room.”
Ramsey’s doctor had once mentioned he should cut back on the brew and take more vacations. It was laughable. Ramsey had a better chance of taking up knitting.
Agent Shepard led the way toward the conference room. They passed several open doors, and a glance in each found a curious agent finding a reason to hover.
The conference room was well lit with a bank of windows that overlooked the surrounding compound. Melina stood back as the two men filled cups. Her move didn’t appear to be deferential but strategic. She was assessing him, taking note of the small details that he knew could yield insight into any man.
Ramsey sat at the end of the table and set his briefcase and coffee cup down. He clicked open the locks as Jackson sat and Shepard closed the door.
She sat to his left, and though she kept her gaze downcast, Ramsey sensed her curiosity. From what Jackson had said on the phone, Shepard was good at what she did. She had worked the entire state doing mostly undercover and human trafficking cases, but she could be reckless. That trait was her best asset but also her Achilles’ heel.
“Agent Shepard, how do you know”—he glanced at his notes—“Reverend Beckett?”
“Our parents are neighbors. She’s two years older, and we knew each other growing up. She knows the women who work the streets around her mission. When she learned two were missing, she asked me if I could ask around.”
“And you figured you could handle it alone?” Ramsey asked.
No hint of apology softened her grim expression. “Yes, I did.”
“And when did you realize the driver of the van wasn’t your ordinary john?”
“As I said in my report, when I smelled hints of bleach in the van.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” Ramsey said.
Darkness shadowed her eyes. “I do.”
“This individual’s DNA is linked to at least ten murders across the country. But I believe there are more victims.”
“Ten?” No missing the anger tightening her words.
“That we know of. If you hadn’t stabbed him, you would have been the next victim. Who gave you a belt buckle with a knife?”
“My father. He’s a retired Nashville homicide detective.”
Points for Dad. He opened his folder and pulled out a series of crime scene photos. The images were all of nude women at various stages of decomposition.
Agent Shepard studied the first image with keen interest. Ramsey had seen the pictures so many times that he could describe them without looking. The image she studied now was of Nikki Smith, Victim #6. She had been a runaway who at seventeen had started selling herself on the streets. She had been twenty-one when she was murdered. “Cause of death was strangulation, but as you can see from the cuts and puncture marks on her body, she was tortured before she was killed.”
“Is that a handcuff key on the chain around her neck?” Shepard asked.
“Yes. All the victims were found with similar keys on their bodies. We think he was toying with the women. The key that could have set them free was dangling from their neck out of reach.”
Agent Shepard nodded as she studied another picture. “Are those drill marks on the body?” Her tone was an odd blend of curiosity, anger, and some horror.
“We believe so,” he said.
She passed the images to Jackson, whose stoic gaze shifted from sadness to anger. “When was she killed?”
“2005. Her body was found on the side of a rural road in Maryland; however, she worked the streets in Baltimore. She’d been missing for a week. The next victim was found two years later in South Carolina. Again, young woman, tortured and strangled.”
“Does he have a type?” Shepard asked.
“He goes after the prostitutes,” he said. “The ones he chose weren’t on the streets long.”
“Inexperienced. Not yet hardened by the streets.”
“Yes.”
“They were easier targets,” Shepard said. “The experienced ones might have avoided him.”