Absolute Pleasure. Jamie Denton
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let herself out, shaken by the knowledge that not all lessons were easily learned. Still, she finally had firsthand knowledge of what Margo had meant by being so completely caught up in a storm of passion that nothing else mattered…except absolute pleasure.
3
SUNNY PROPPED HER bottom on the edge of her desk and faced the U.S. map pinned to the wall of her closetlike, windowless office. Tapping her index finger against her lips, she studied the neon-orange pinheads. Seattle, Napa Valley, St. Louis, Atlanta, Miami, Philadelphia and Baltimore. “Random choices?” she mused aloud. “Or preselected for reasons we still haven’t determined?”
Georgia Tremont, a tall, willowy redhead fresh from Quantico consulted the computer printout in her lap. “The computer wasn’t able to establish a pattern to the UNSUB’s choice of locations,” she reminded Sunny. As one of a handful of analysts employed by the unit, Georgia’s job was to dissect evidence and other pertinent data provided by the senior agents in charge of investigations. “I say random.”
“Possibly,” Sunny said slowly. Her instincts told her otherwise. And she always trusted her instincts.
“Computers aren’t infallible,” Ned Ball added. “I don’t trust them.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” Georgia laughed. “For a guy who investigates Internet fraud.”
“Among other things.” Ned pushed his glasses back in place. “But that’s my point. Computers make it easier for the criminals. The Net is a hotbed of illegal activity.”
Georgia rolled her big blue eyes. “It’s not the computers, or the Internet, Ned, but the people using them.”
Sunny pushed off the desk. “Play nice now, kiddies,” she teased the rookie agents. “We’re supposed to be brainstorming here, not debating the alleged evils of the information superhighway.”
For a guy who claimed he didn’t trust computers, Ned Ball was the CID’s answer to Bill Gates and Steve Jobs all rolled into one pocket-protector-sporting computer nerd. The guy was golden when it came to ferreting out glitches, back doors and security hazards. His first week in the unit, he’d single-handedly tracked down the developer of a nasty e-mail worm responsible for temporarily shutting down the computer system of several of the nation’s banks.
Sunny dropped into the chair behind her desk. “Georgia, any word on those search warrants yet?”
“Sorry, Mac. We’re still waiting. I put another call in to the clerk half an hour ago, and she said the judge was still on the bench in closed session.”
Frustration bit into Sunny hard. Upon returning from the Wilder estate, she’d obtained authorization from the unit chief to have the crime lab search the art gallery and theater. She’d had the paperwork prepared and sent to the judge for signature within the hour. Three hours later and still no warrants. “Can’t you find another federal magistrate in this town? We need those warrants signed so the lab can get moving on this.”
Ned dropped a sheaf of papers on the edge of Sunny’s desk and frowned. “If this was a violent crime, the scenes would’ve been searched already,” he complained.
“True,” Georgia commiserated. “But we should be thankful these aren’t violent crimes.” She looked back at Sunny. “Do you really expect the lab to find anything after all this time?”
“Maybe. If we’re lucky, they’ll give us something new to go on,” Sunny said, but she wasn’t about to pin her hopes on the lab turning up viable evidence. For one, it’d been over two weeks since Wilder accompanied the UNSUB to the theater. Countless individuals had no doubt contaminated the private box, from patrons to theater staff and cleaning crews. With any luck at all, they might turn up physical evidence from the art gallery since the place was closed, but even she had to admit it was unlikely. They already had the guy’s DNA from four of the known crime scenes, but no identifying factors to provide them with a name. All she could realistically hope for would be a match confirming Abbott was their UNSUB.
Georgia offered her a sympathetic smile. “The clerk did promise to call as soon as the warrants were signed.”
Sunny frowned at the silent phone, wishing Duncan would return her call. Whether or not he could give her the information necessary to form that pattern she suspected existed, she could only guess. She wanted to know more about those two cases he’d mentioned he was investigating in addition to Wilder. Were the claimants on her existing list of victims? If not, that would bring the total number of victims to nine nationwide. And if there were more victims, why hadn’t local authorities advised her office when she’d published an alert weeks ago?
Because SEDSCAM was a nonviolent crime, she reminded herself, making it a low priority for local jurisdictions. If rich, affluent, campaign-dollar-contributing women were being raped, murdered and dumped along the roadside for Joe Citizen to discover on his morning jog, she’d have the high-ranking officials from those cities storming her office demanding action.
By sheer accident they’d discovered the connection to Wilder, albeit five days after the fact. The credit belonged solely to Georgia for bringing an article in the newspaper about the theft to Sunny’s attention. If the incident hadn’t occurred in their own backyard, or if the Wilder name hadn’t attracted press coverage, weeks may have passed before they’d been notified, if at all. She’d acted quickly and rather than dealing with the usual pissing contest over jurisdiction, the local authorities had been happy to hand the investigation off to her.
The time factor was short in relation to the other cases, not that it had garnered her much headway with regard to solid leads thus far. They still had no idea where the UNSUB might strike next, where he went after pulling a job or what he did with the millions in cash and property he’d lifted from the vics.
Sunny let out a frustrated sigh. “I need to get a visual on this case.” She dragged a yellow legal pad in front of her and drew two lines down the page. “What do we know? What do we suspect? What can we prove?” Once she had a list, the entries would go onto three-by-five index cards which she’d be able to move around on a chart, like a giant jigsaw puzzle.
“We know there are seven vics in seven different states and no confirmed pattern,” Ned started. “We also know one man is responsible for at least four of the crimes based on DNA evidence collected.”
Georgia flipped through her printouts. “DNA was collected from hair samples in Philly and St. Louis. Miami from a cigar stub…” Confusion filled her blue eyes when she looked up at Sunny and Ned. “A sweatband from the Atlanta location?”
Sunny shrugged and entered the names of the victims and their geographic locations in the first column, followed by the DNA links. “We suspect he’s responsible for all seven crimes.” She looked up at the two rookie agents. “There’s a possibility we could have nine victims. A recovery expert hired by Wilder’s insurance carrier was at the estate this morning. In addition to Wilder, he claims his office is handling two additional cases with similar M.O.’s.”
“Did you get the names?” Georgia asked. “Do you know which locations?”
“Not yet,” Sunny answered. She wasn’t proud of the fact she’d been so thoroughly distracted by the awareness sizzling between her and Duncan that she’d failed to ask him even a few pertinent questions regarding his investigations. “I’ve left a message for him.”
Georgia moved the printouts and other documents from her lap to the floor, then reached across Sunny’s desk for the file containing the six composite sketches of the UNSUB they’d obtained from the victims. “Which of these four guys match our DNA evidence?” she asked.
“Ian Banyon, Burke Conners, Scott Kauffman.” Sunny consulted her notes. “And Adam Hunt.”
Georgia separated the four composites, helped herself to the plastic box of pushpins from Sunny’s drawer, then hung the four sketches on the wall near the map. “Okay, now give me the order?”
“Conners