The Perfect Husband Read online

  “Don’t let my good looks fool you, sweetheart—I’m no dumb bunny.”

  She nodded, her gaze returning to the night sky. She was cold. She wanted to go inside and sleep. She was terrified of the nightmares that would find her again.

  “One month of training,” J.T. said all of a sudden. “I’ll do it.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t be so smug. We start first thing in the morning, oh-six-hundred. Physical fitness, self-defense, small firearms, the works. I’ll burn your butt into the ground and turn you into a whole new woman.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you want to know why I changed my mind?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “But it does matter, Angela. It matters to me.” He waved his hand around the villa, the garden, the pool. “I don’t own this. Not really. Every square inch of this place, every pebble, every cactus, was paid for by my father. You could say I’m still on allowance. I can keep this, I can live this way forever in return for only two things. The first doesn’t concern you. The second is that I never return to ‘the business.’ I take you on, I train you, I lose all this. Do you think I should do that for you, Angela?”

  “No,” she told him honestly.

  “Then we agree. I’m doing it for me. Because I want to. Because I’ve got the worst case of orphan envy in the whole wide world.”

  He grabbed a beer, climbed off the chair, and walked toward her.

  She could feel the tension in him. He was not a man who played by the rules—he probably had blown up churches. He had anger and dark moods she didn’t understand. He was unpredictable, raw around the edges. When he moved, he didn’t make any sound. And after the marble-smooth facade of Jim, he seemed unbelievably real. If this man had a problem with you, he wouldn’t poison your dog or burn down your garage. He’d tell you about it in your face. He’d let you know. If he discovered a father beating his daughter, he wouldn’t rig a stockroom ladder to fall, breaking the father’s leg. He’d walk up to the man and slam a fist through his face.

  He stopped so close, she could feel the faint heat of the cigarette.

  “You dreaming about him, Angela?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When was the last time you slept through the night?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Fixed yourself a good meal?”

  “A long time.”

  “Well, stop it.” He ran a finger down her arm. She flinched and he shook his head. “There’s nothing to you, Angela. You’ve let yourself go. Now you’re just bones with shadows rimming your eyes. A good stiff wind could blow you over.”

  “It’s hard,” she said. “We’ve . . . we’ve been on the run. There are problems—”

  “Tough. You have to learn to compartmentalize. From here on out, you separate. You’re scared, sleep anyway. You’re anxious, eat fruits and vegetables. Get some mass on those bones, then we’ll talk muscle. And stop shredding your nails. If you won’t take your body seriously, how is anyone else supposed to?”

  “Strange advice coming from you.”

  “I just preach, never practice.” His fingers lingered on her arm. The pads of his fingertips were rough and warm. He doodled a lazy pattern she felt down to her toes. She stepped back.

  “You don’t like that?”

  “I . . . no, I don’t.”

  He chuckled. “Liar.”

  “I’m looking for a teacher, not another mistake.”

  “Ah, and that’s how you see men.” He tapped the beer bottle against his forearm, then lifted it for a deep swig.

  “We’ll start in the pool,” he said. “Try to get you in shape without hurting anything.”

  “I’m not a good swimmer.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t whine.”

  She brought up her chin in defiance and he laughed. “You’re good. You have spirit.”

  “Oh, that’s me,” she muttered. “I’m just plain spunky.”

  He chuckled again, then his gaze grew speculative, caressing her cheek. He raised the cigarette. The end glowed red as he inhaled. Several seconds passed before he released the smoke.

  She found herself watching the small O formed by his whiskered lips. She watched the long strands of his silky black hair brush his collarbone. The porch light flickered over him. She wanted to touch his skin, see if it felt as warm as it looked.

  She glanced down immediately, caught off guard by her own reaction.

  “Scared?” he murmured huskily, his voice too knowing.

  “No,” she said instantly.

  “You’re shaking in your boots. And I haven’t even tried anything. Yet.”

  “I’m not scared!” But she was, and they both knew it. She was uncomfortable, and her thoughts were muddled. Should she trust him, should she not trust him? Should she run, should she play it tough? Should she step closer, should she step away? She was sick of the doubt.

  She made her decision. Before she lost her courage, she grabbed the beer bottle and yanked it from his grasp. She crossed to the white gravel bed bordering the cactus garden and dumped the beer out.

  “No more. I hired you. I want you sober.”

  “A marine shoots better drunk,” he said curtly, no longer amused.

  “Well, J.T., you’re not a marine.”

  “Big mistake, Angela. Big mistake.” He stalked toward her.

  She stood her ground. “You getting mean?” she said haughtily. “Do you miss the beer that much already?”

  “Not the beer. Sex.” His arm whipped out, faster than she could have imagined. One hand palmed her head, his fingertips rubbing her scalp.

  “You still haven’t moved. Maybe you want to kiss me. If you do something that dangerous, will you feel strong?”

  He bent over her. This close she could see the feral gleam in his eyes, could see the individual hairs of his twenty-four-hour beard.

  Facial hair. Genuine facial hair to go with the hair on his chest. He had no idea what those things meant to her. No idea what it was like to be confronted by a man who was anything but cold.

  “Come on, Angela, kiss me. I’ll show you the third thing I’m very, very good at.”

  He leaned closer still but didn’t touch her lips. They both knew he wouldn’t. He wanted her to do it.

  She reached up and carefully, hesitantly, touched the prickly rasp of his beard. It was softer than she imagined. Her fingertips tingled. He sucked in his breath. She was holding her own. She followed his jaw, learning its strong, solid line. Her fingers tangled in his hair.

  “For God’s sake, don’t you know how to kiss a man?” He yanked her closer.

  And she punched him in the shoulder.

  He grunted, more with surprise than pain, and fell back a step.

  “That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?” she stated firmly. “I’m supposed to take a stand. Well, I did. And while I’m at it . . .” She yanked the cigarette from his lips. “I hate smoking.”

  “Too late. You should’ve run, Angela, exited stage left while you had the chance.”

  He caught her easily and pulled her against him hard. One minute she was standing by the cactus garden, the next she was pressed against a burning body, her legs cradled by muscled thighs, her torso clamped by sinewy arms. She opened her mouth to protest, but he merely took advantage and captured her lips.

  He was not bashful or calculating. His tongue plunged in deep, hot, knowing, and tasting of tobacco. He filled her, stroked her, grazed her teeth, and challenged her. She squirmed in his arms. The kiss deepened and ripened, never painful, but insistent until she felt something unfurl in her stomach.

  She wanted to melt a little. She wanted to dig her fingers into his shoulders and hold on to him.

  With a harsh cry she hammered her fists against his chest. He let her go.

  “Bastard!”

  “Absolutely. And I warned you.”

  She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. She felt raw and expose
d all over. She wanted to beat the crap out of him.

  He didn’t step back or come closer. He just stood there, challenging her. She couldn’t overpower him. He was stronger—men were always stronger—and she didn’t know how to fight yet. Her eyes began to sting. Dammit, she was going to cry.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Oh, come on, Angela, you were doing so much better than that. Don’t give up on me now.”

  “You arrogant son of a—”

  “Much better. It’s the spirit that will keep you alive, Angela. Don’t lose the spirit. Now go to bed.”

  “And yourself?” she fired back. “Are you going to stay out here all night, ignoring your own advice?”

  “Probably.”

  She cocked her head to the side, sizing him up. “I see,” she said casually. “Your sister’s only been here twelve hours and you’re already falling apart.”

  “Shut up, Angela.”

  “Why? You can mess with my mind but I can’t mess with yours? I might not be very strong and I’m probably a lousy shot, but I can connect the dots. You and your sister have some different opinions on your father. You seem to want to have a relationship with her. She seems to want to burn you at the stake. How am I doing so far?”

  “Go to bed,” he warned.

  “Not when I’m on such a roll. What did your father do anyway?”

  “What didn’t he do? Good night.”

  “Did he hit you? I know about that kind of thing.”

  “Your father beat you?”

  “All the time,” she stated flatly. “I still hate him for it.”

  “Huh. Now, see, I think that kind of hatred is healthy. I’m a firm believer in it myself. Marion disagrees. She says our father was merely a little strict.”

  “But you don’t agree?”

  He grunted. “The colonel thought child rearing was a fucking blood sport.” He walked to the table, lit a new cigarette, and inhaled. His hands trembled slightly.

  “Go away, Angela. Surely you got bigger things to worry about than my twisted family.”

  She didn’t go away. They had a connection now, and it mattered to her. “And the woman?”

  “The woman?”

  “The prostitute who had your father’s child.”

  “My, my, you really did eavesdrop.”

  “Yes,” she said shamelessly.

  He continued smoking and she decided he wasn’t going to answer her. Then just as his cigarette burned down to the nub, he said, “My father took a seventeen-year-old prostitute as a mistress. He liked to do that kind of thing. She got pregnant. So the colonel tossed her out. She stood on the doorstep and begged for her clothes. He told the butler to turn the dogs loose. She left.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Of course not. The girl tried going to Marion next. She didn’t want money for herself, but for the baby.”

  “But Marion . . .”

  “Turned her away. Marion’s whole life is about selective memory. Daddy is her darling. Whatever he does must be all right or the universe will cease to exist. If Daddy says the girl’s some lying whore he’s never met, then the girl’s some lying whore he’s never met.”

  “So she came to you?”

  J.T. cocked one brow. “You mean you haven’t figured it out?”

  She shook her head.

  “The girl’s name was Rachel. Her son, my half brother, was Teddy.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, her eyes wide as the pieces clicked.

  “That’s right,” J.T. said softly. “I married her. And she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  J.T. dropped his cigarette on the patio and ground it out with his heel. He saluted her mockingly and she still couldn’t think of a response.

  “Get some sleep. Oh-six-hundred, at the pool. And keep clear of Marion, Angie. She doesn’t like you, and Marion knows how to eat a person alive, then pick her teeth with the bones. We’re damn proud of her.”

  He left her alone on the patio, listening to the water lap against the pool while somewhere in the distance a coyote bayed at the moon without ever getting a response.

  SEVEN

  THIS IS JIM Beckett interview number one, conducted by Special Agent Pierce Quincy with assistance from Lieutenant Lance Difford of the Massachusetts Crime Prevention and Control Unit. Location is Massachusetts Correction Institute Cedar Junction at Walpole. Date is November 11, 1995. Jim Beckett has been incarcerated approximately three months. With his approval, this interview is being audiotaped and filmed. Do you have any questions?”

  BECKETT: Quincy? As in the coroner on TV?

  QUINCY: Medical examiner.

  BECKETT: Did you watch the show as a child? Was it your favorite show?

  QUINCY: I saw it a few times.

  BECKETT: What did your father do?

  QUINCY: He’s a plumber.

  BECKETT: Not nearly as exciting as a coroner. I see your point.

  DIFFORD: Cut the crap, Beckett. We’re not here to watch you head-shrink the FBI. Quincy’s only read about you, but I know you, Beckett. Don’t forget that.

  BECKETT: Lieutenant Difford, charming as always. The part I enjoyed most about being a police officer was reporting to dumb fucks like you. The big bad police lieutenant whose experience and street savvy will keep everyone safe at night, when all along it’s your own man who’s going out there, pulling over sweet blondes, and dicing them up. How’s your insomnia, Lieutenant?

  DIFFORD: Fuck you—

  QUINCY: All right, let’s get down to business. Lieutenant Difford’s right, I’ve never personally met you, Jim, but I know all about you. I also saw all the files you pulled from our Investigative Support Unit, so I know you’re familiar with serial killer profiling techniques. As we’ve discussed, this interview is strictly voluntary. You don’t get anything in return, except a break in what must be a very monotonous routine here at Walpole. Would you like a cigarette or anything?

  BECKETT: I don’t smoke. My body is my temple.

  DIFFORD: Jesus Christ—

  BECKETT: I want to see my profile.

  QUINCY: We’re not into swaps, Jim.

  BECKETT: Afraid I’ll be able to refute it, see all the flaws? Or are you afraid I’ll be able to someday use it to my advantage?

  QUINCY: You have an IQ of 145. I don’t underestimate that, Jim.

  BECKETT: Laughter. You’re not half bad, Special Agent Quincy. I may just come to like you.

  DIFFORD: Shit, are you two gonna exchange love letters or can we get on with it?

  BECKETT: Wait a minute. I get it. You two are playing good cop/bad cop. The smooth, sophisticated FBI agent and the blue collar, illiterate street cop. Have I mentioned yet that the FBI and local law enforcement agencies haven’t had an original thought since 1975?

  DIFFORD: Maybe, Beckett, we’re just being ourselves.

  QUINCY: Jim, I’d like to start by having you describe yourself in your own words. If you were profiling yourself, what would you say?

  BECKETT: I don’t think so, Quincy. You’re the professional here. You go first. I’ll tell you if you’re getting warm.

  Pause.

  QUINCY: All right. The FBI entered the case with the discovery of the third body outside of Clinton, Mass. Later it was determined that this was the sixth victim, but at the time there were only two other crime scenes for comparison. The victim was a twenty-three-year-old mother and cocktail waitress returning from work. Her car was found pulled over on the side of a secluded back road, the windows rolled up and the doors locked. Inside, the glove compartment was open, her keys were in the ignition, and her purse was sitting in the passenger seat. Her clothes, covered with debris from the nearby woods, were found neatly folded and stacked in the trunk. There were no signs of struggle.

  A quarter of a mile from the car, the body was discovered in the ditch. The victim had been stripped naked and placed faceup, arms and legs spread-eagle. A tree branch was stuck in her
vagina. Clearly the body had been arranged for shock value. The victim had been sadistically tortured and sexually assaulted. Exact cause of death was difficult to determine. The victim’s own pantyhose had been tied around her neck for ligature strangulation. In addition the victim’s head had been savagely beaten with a blunt instrument—later determined to be the same tree branch that was inserted in her vagina.

  Bruises around the victim’s breast, buttocks, and inner thighs revealed the unsub [unidentified subject] had spent a significant amount of time torturing the victim before killing her. The extensive amount of postmortem mutilation, combined with the precise posing of the body, indicated that he’d probably spent at least an hour with the victim after the murder. The unsub had also taken the time to clean up the crime scene. There were no prints, no body hair, no semen samples, or torn clothing left behind. The victim had some defense wounds on her hands, indicating a struggle, but she’d been quickly subdued. We could find no traces of skin cells or blood beneath her fingernails.

  We theorized that the unsub had utilized some credible ruse to lure the victim from her car. He’d then controlled the victim, tortured her, raped her, and killed her with particular fury. Afterward he’d arranged the body, vented further rage in postmortem piquerism, then returned to her vehicle, where he stored the clothes in the trunk and locked the car doors.

  Several aspects of this crime stood out. First the fact that the unsub had lured the victim from the safety of her automobile versus using a blitz-style attack suggested that the unsub appeared to be a safe, credible person with advanced communication skills. The amount of time spent with the victim indicated the unsub was comfortable and confident in his abilities to execute the crime and escape. Lab tests revealed traces of spermicide and latex in the woman’s vagina, indicating that the killer had most likely worn a condom for the sexual assault, then removed it from the crime scene. Most likely, the unsub was already at the stage where he traveled with a “murder kit” containing such items as condoms, gloves, perhaps disguises, anything to assist him with his attack. Finally, the level of sheer violence and cruelty, combined with the vicious and shocking postmortem mutilation, indicated a man with unbelievable rage toward women.