Deadly Lies (Deadly #3)(73)

“Is that what you wonder?” Monica asked softly as she moved up close to Sam. “Do you wonder why the Watchman took you that day?”

Sam met her gaze. “I wonder a lot of things, but not that.” Right place, perfect victim. He’d been ready for her, but she definitely hadn’t been prepared for him. She glanced at her watch. Max would still be in interrogation. Well, maybe. “Excuse me, I need to—”

“Do you still have nightmares?”

Was that her friend asking? Or was it the senior agent who reported directly to Hyde? Sam swallowed. “This isn’t about me.”

“You can’t get over hell so fast. You can’t, and Quinlan can’t.”

True. “I have to go.” Sam hurried down the hallway and almost missed the soft—

“I can’t.” The words slipped from Monica’s lips.


“Did your brother tell you how he came to be in possession of the knife?” Dante asked.

Max stared back at him. “I didn’t ask. The guy hasn’t exactly been in a talking mood. He lost his father, and he’s grieving.” And Quinlan shouldn’t be at the station. The press would be out there, waiting like vultures to catch the money shot—a photo of Quinlan’s damaged hand to splash in the papers and magazines.

Dante stared down at his notes. “The surviving victims indicated they were tied at all times.”

Max rolled his shoulders. “Then I guess they were, but Quinlan must have worked loose.” That was the only thing that made sense. “He found the knife they’d been using on him, and he got ready for some payback.”

But Quinlan hadn’t got his payback. Frank. Talk about screwed up timing.

“The only fingerprints on the knife were Quinlan’s,” Kim Daniels said. “We also found traces of his blood on the knife. Frank’s blood, of course, and Quinlan’s.”

“Because they used it to carve him up, and they were smart enough to wear gloves while they did it.” Come on, they knew this. The agents weren’t idiots.

“Our ME noticed something… odd about the slashes on your brother’s chest.” Dante slid a picture across the table. A photo of Quinlan’s torso that must have been taken at the hospital before the wounds had been bandaged. “Do you see this…?” He pointed to the lower left-hand side of Quinlan’s stomach. “The wounds are deepest here, then as the line angles up diagonally, the wounds become shallow.”

“So?” Damn, there were at least five long slashes on Quinlan. His brother hadn’t complained of the pain. Not once.

“The wounds weren’t deep enough to hit any major organs—”

“So either the bastard got lucky or he knew what he was doing,” Max snapped and shoved the picture away. He didn’t want to look at his brother’s torn body.

Dante steepled his fingers together and leveled a hard stare at him. “Based on the entry depth of the wounds and the angle, our ME thinks it’s possible the wounds were self-inflicted.”

Red coated his vision as Max leapt to his feet. “That’s bullshit!”

The door squeaked open behind him. Max spun around and found Samantha standing in the doorway. Her gaze darted from him to Luke.

“Did you know about this?” Max demanded and stabbed a finger at the gory photograph. “Did you know they were going to say Quinlan cut himself? Hell, I guess he kidnapped himself, too, huh?”

Silence from Dante and Kim.

“What are you talking about?” Samantha asked and she stepped toward him. “I haven’t heard—”

“Brantley took a look at the photos for us,” Kim finally said. “He thinks the wounds could have been self-inflicted.”

Could have. Shit. “And they could have been made by a sick freak who was torturing him,” Max blasted.

Samantha crept closer and stared down at the photo.

“The point of entry is deep on the lower left-hand side.” Dante pushed the photo toward her.

“I see it.” Her breath eased out. “We need to ask Quinlan exactly where the attacker was standing when he sliced him.” She glanced up. “And that’s not going to be easy because Quinlan isn’t in the mood to cooperate with the FBI anymore.”

“And I don’t blame him,” Max tossed back. “I thought we were here to tie up loose ends.” Self-inflicted, my ass.

“This is a loose end,” Dante said.

“Bull. This is you trying to pin some sick crap on my brother.” Max pointed at the agent. “Go talk to the other victims. Find out what the hell they know.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be so easy,” said a deep voice from the doorway.

Max glanced over his shoulder and found a tall, dark-skinned man waiting there. “We just received word,” the guy said, his voice hard and booming, “that the first kidnap victim, Scott Jacobson, won’t be making it in for his interview today.” This guy had to be the infamous Hyde that he’d read about in the papers.

“He’s not coming in?” Dante repeated. “Why the hell not?”

“Because somebody just killed him,” Hyde said. “Jacobson’s car exploded on his way to our office.”





CHAPTER Fourteen