Crash Into Me (2 page)

The
pride she took in her figure was mostly professional. She was a lean, mean,
fighting machine, and few men wanted to tangle with her, in or out of the
bedroom.

Special
Agent in Charge Leland Grant was the only man, besides her brother, she’d ever
trusted enough to get close to, but there were no sparks between them. Perhaps
because he was happily married, and old enough to be the father she’d never
had.

She
knocked on the frosted glass office door before she entered, just to be polite,
knowing he could see her more clearly than she him. Grant was on the phone,
raising a “just another minute” finger in her direction, a gesture that had
been annoying people for decades and didn’t fail to elicit the same reaction in
her.

Sonny
slumped into a chair across from his desk, going for a posture somewhere
between apathetic and insolent.

His
lips curved as he watched her, and she knew she’d succeeded only in amusing
him, so she let out the breath she was holding and sat up straight. This was
her boss, not her best friend, and it would behoove her to act that way.

“Going
somewhere?” he asked as he replaced the receiver.

She
looked down at the slim-fitting jeans, high-heeled half boots, and snug sweater
she was wearing. Why did everyone have to comment when she wasn’t dressed like
a slob? “The movies,” she decided.

“With
Mitchell?”

She
frowned. “Hell, no.”

“I
saw you two training.”

She
wasn’t surprised. The gym had a two-way mirror, which intimidated the cadets to
no end, because they never knew when superiors were spying on them. It had been
awhile since anyone had judged Sonny’s performance, however. She’d been active
for more than five years, and proven herself resourceful and adept on many
occasions.

“For
a second there, you froze.”

Her
spine stiffened, and she had to force herself to relax. “I didn’t freeze, I
considered. He’s cute.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she dared him to
dispute her.

Grant
didn’t bother to. “It can’t happen in the field.”

She
knew what he meant. He didn’t give a damn if she screwed every agent on the
payroll as long as she didn’t turn into a helpless female at an inopportune
moment. His concern was not for her safety, although such a mistake could cost
her her life, but for the success of the team he led. He wanted to catch bad
guys, and if she panicked during physical contact, she was more of a liability
than an asset.

She
gave him a cold stare that had withered lesser men.

Undaunted,
he leaned back in his chair. “I have an assignment for you.”

Her
mood shifted. “Yeah?”

“It’s
a mother.”

“Don’t
tease me.”

“I’m
not.” He handed her a slick three-ring binder containing pages of glossy photos
behind clear page protectors.

The
man in the pictures was the most recognizable professional surfer on the
planet. “Ben Fortune? You’ve got to be joking.”

Grant
was on the phone again, so he didn’t answer her. She flipped through the file,
studying a copy of Fortune’s driver’s license and memorizing much of his
personal information at a glance. With his dark good looks and tall, muscular
physique, the man was very easy on the eyes. In the not-so-distant past, his
likeness had been used to sell everything from deodorant to men’s sportswear.
The candid shots, featuring him in a body-hugging wetsuit, low-slung
boardshorts, or just plain old jeans and a T-shirt, ran like an Abercrombie
& Fitch catalog.

There
was one full-length photo, obviously taken from a distance, that was
particularly striking. Fortune was standing alone on a rock-strewn beach,
looking out at the ocean, surfboard wedged under one arm. It must have been
taken in the early morning, because the picture had a grainy, grayish cast,
like a fine coat of mist coated its surface.

Sonny
associated surfing with crowded beaches and fun in the sun, but neither element
was present here. The sky was overcast and the mood somber, even solitary.

This
was not a picture that would have sold toothpaste.

After
she finished perusing the file, with more attention to detail than was probably
necessary, Grant handed her another, holding the phone to his ear with his
shoulder.

It
contained pictures of women. Like Fortune’s, their faces were familiar, but not
for world-class surfing or lucrative corporate sponsorships. They were victims
of a serial killer who had been hunting off the coast of Southern California
for the past two years. The bodies had been found along a relatively small
stretch of land north of San Diego, in a ritzy, bohemian community known as
Torrey Pines.

Sonny
knew the area and its people well. Before attending the FBI Academy and
accepting a job at VICAP, the most prestigious criminal apprehension program in
the country, she used to live there.

Torrey
Pines was a prime section of real estate, encompassing a couple of beachside
neighborhoods just outside of San Diego’s busy metropolis. La Jolla, the jewel,
boasted a breathtaking coastline, shallow tide pools, and some of the best
surfing beaches in California. In contrast, Torrey Harbor was quiet and
low-key. It purported to be a quaint fishing village, although these days more
of its residents made their living as artisans than on the sea.

Both
communities had lost one of its local girls to a killer.

Hanging
up the phone, Grant leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his
chest, awaiting her reaction.

“You
think the SoCal Strangler is a surfer?”

He
gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s a lead.”

“Based
on what?”

“Trace
evidence.” Picking up a list from the top of his desk, he read, “Titanium,
neoprene, petroleum jelly, and sand.” At her puzzled expression, he went on to
explain. “Most wetsuits are made of neoprene, a synthetic, water-resistant
material. The water is cold in California, and many surfers wear them
year-round.”

“Sand
is obvious enough, but petroleum jelly?”

“Hardcore
surfers get contact dermatitis from wearing a wetsuit all day. They put
Vaseline around their necks, where the fabric tends to rub.”

“What
about titanium?”

“A
component of high-quality wetsuits. The kind you buy when money is no object.
They keep you warm in the winter, but rub the hell out of your neck.”

“Are
you saying that he was wearing a wetsuit when he perpetrated the killings?”

“Perhaps.
A wetsuit would inhibit movement, but it would also be good protection against
defensive injuries.”

She
frowned down at the photo in her lap, finding the idea difficult to wrap her
mind around. Ben Fortune was the stuff dreams were made of, and she wasn’t just
considering female fantasies. Boys of all ages aspired to be like him. “Surfers
are a dime a dozen in Torrey Pines,” she argued. “La Jolla is crawling with
trust fund babies who have nothing better to do than ride waves all day. What
links Fortune to these crimes?”

Grant
deliberated for a moment. “There are some unusual circumstances surrounding his
wife’s death.”

Sonny
remembered the incident well. Before the culprit was arrested, Fortune had gone
through a lengthy, much-publicized interrogation. Since then, he’d all but
disappeared, shunning the contest circuit and retreating from the limelight.
“She was murdered by a drifter,” she recalled. “Darrius O’Shea. He made a full
confession.”

“Which
he recanted.”

“When?”

“Yesterday,”
Grant said, sliding a sheet of paper across his desk, “in his suicide note.”

She
picked up the copy of the note. It was poorly spelled but painstakingly
executed, stating only that he hadn’t killed Olivia Fortune, and in his final
moment of clarity, wished to leave this world unencumbered.

People
rarely lied in suicide notes. If anything, they used the opportunity to come
clean. Even so, cynicism had her asking, “Does he have family?”

Grant
smiled. “Not a soul. O’Shea was a veteran and a loner. His parents, estranged
wife, and brother are all dead.”

“Hmm.”
Not much reason to prevaricate, with no surviving relatives. “Why would he
confess to a crime he didn’t commit?”

He
leaned back in his chair again. “Who knows? Mental illness. Unresolved guilt
over a separate incident. The lure of a warm bed and three square meals a day.”

It
wasn’t unheard of for interviewees, especially the young and weak-minded, to
make a false confession under duress. “He had the murder weapon,” she pointed
out.

“That
he did,” Grant agreed. “Fortune’s wife was strangled with electrical cord, just
like the recent victims. And although the incidents could be unrelated, there
are enough similarities to warrant further investigation.”

“Was
Fortune considered a suspect before O’Shea was arrested?”

“Yes,
but due to lack of evidence…or because of his family’s connections with local
law enforcement, he was never formally charged.”

“What
connections?”

“Mr.
Fortune, senior, is a retired criminal court judge, and a very powerful man. He
could have called in a few favors.”

She
closed the files in her lap, satisfied. “Where do I come in?”

Grant
removed his glasses and massaged his tired eyes. “I want you to go undercover.
Hang around, make yourself visible. Some of the victims were beach bunnies,
surf groupies, and you’re from the area.”

She
quirked a brow. “I’m from the other side of the tracks. Last Chance Trailer
Park is not La Jolla Cove.”

“An
undercover assignment implies playing a role, Sonny.”

“Grant,
I’m twenty-eight. The eldest victim was twenty-two.”

He
studied her appearance. “You could look younger, if you wanted to. And wear
sunglasses. Your eyes give you away.”

Sonny
shifted in her chair, bothered by the notion that anyone could see through her.
“Why are you sending me?”

On
this point, he leveled with her. “I need an attractive female whose looks
garner attention, and you fit the bill. You’re also familiar with the area, the
laid-back attitude. I can’t send a surveillance team with you, so you’d be on
your own, for the most part, but I know you can handle yourself.”

She
crossed her arms over her chest. Grant was flattering her, and more
importantly, enticing her with a challenging, high-profile assignment. Getting
close to Fortune wouldn’t be easy, and having free reign, with little or no
interference, also sounded appealing. Of course, there were drawbacks. She was no
sexpot beach bunny.

He
read her mind. “I can offer you a limited wardrobe budget.”

She
smiled. “I’ll take it.”

“Fine,”
he said, replacing his glasses. “You’ll go tomorrow.”

Sonny
rearranged the files on her lap, her mind on getting into character for a peach
assignment. Returning to Torrey Pines would almost be like going back to high
school, with new clothes, ten years of life experience, and the security of
knowing she could kick the ass of anyone who got in her way.

After a week of observation, Sonny knew
Grant’s plan for her to infiltrate the ranks of a very close-knit society would
fail.

She’d
been set up in a small but costly coastal apartment less than a block from
Windansea Beach in southern La Jolla. The location was choice for wave-, babe-,
or boy-watching, all of which Sonny had been doing her fair share.

Ben
Fortune was spectacular eye candy.

Fortune
no longer competed professionally, but he was still on top of his game and in
peak physical condition. He did things on the water other men only dreamed
about. Sonny spent entire afternoons in wide-eyed amazement as he cut his board
through curls of wave as sleek as glass, glided on the edge of breakers the
size of thunderheads, and emerged from the pipe in a gusty mist, as if the ocean
had breathed him in, and finding him worthy to ride another day, exhaled him
back out.

The
sport was so varied in its execution that she could pick Ben out from a crowd
of dark wetsuits and light-colored surfboards. Each surfer was unique, in the
way he held himself, almost crouching, or standing fully upright; in the
movement of his arms, reaching out to touch the curl, fingers splayed, or hands
clenched tight, as if he could grasp each exhilarating moment and hang on to it
like a fistful of sand.

Fortune,
in particular, had a style that was just plain beautiful to behold. At times he
was electric, all sharp edges, quick drop-offs, and wicked cutbacks. He could
also make his movements appear effortless, fluid, organic, as if his surfboard
were an extension of his body, a living, breathing thing. Watching him was like
communing with God; his easy grace was nothing less than transcendent.

As
assignments went, it was tops. Sonny fell in love with the Pacific all over
again, and could have observed wave after unadorned wave break upon the sandy
beach, delighting only in the joy of indefatigable Mother Nature. Studying
handsome athletes in their prime, perfectly muscled bodies encased in slick
black wetsuits that left little to the imagination—perhaps it wasn’t exactly a
spiritual pursuit, but it was a great perk.