Read Online Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Danielle Girard
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shoulder and turning it on again.
He blew the three stairs above where he stood and then moved toward the street. Beneath the bill of his cap, he peeked out at the detective.
The detective was copying down the license plate of the gardening truck in a notebook.
Smiling, he turned his back to the detective again, loving the rush the detective's attention brought to his groin.
He was too good. He had taken care of every detail, worked out every glitch. He'd found the perfect road into Casey's home, the perfect key. He would not be discovered, certainly not so easily as this. Let the detective check the license plate.
It was starting. The game he had waited so long to play was starting again. The police had nothing, but he had planned his next move. Already the score was in his favor.
Chapter 7
Rick Swain stood and took a deep drag on his cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and smashed it out with the toe of his cowboy boot. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. It was already five-thirty. By the time he hit the surface, it would be dark. Another day without light. He was going to go fucking nuts down here.
When he'd trained as a FBI agent, Swain had pictured high-adventure trips into foreign countries and forbidden lands. He would crack the codes of the enemy, break through their barriers and find whatever the Bureau needed. That was supposed to be his job. At least, that was what the Bureau had told him seven years ago.
Not anymore. These days, the best hackers were younger than his last haircut. They say he'd screwed up with McKinley in Cincinnati. They'd investigated it. He'd never seen the results of the investigation, never been given a full report. But he was to blame. He still didn't buy it. He'd installed the microphones himself. There had been no mistakes.
Damn if he knew what the hell had happened, but somehow that killer had gotten into her apartment and attacked Agent McKinley. Thankfully, her partner had come down the hall, heard something strange and gone to investigate. But not before the killer had done permanent damage. Swain had been blamed—he'd been the one who was supposed to hear everything that happened in McKinley's room.
Maybe the killer had deactivated the mikes. No one seemed to care enough to tell Swain. He wondered if McKinley knew. He had tried to contact her, to talk to her, but she'd told him to fuck off. Not that he blamed her. God knows it wasn't her fault. He'd just wished he'd had a chance to apologize—and explain. What good would it have done her? She'd been through hell, and he was trying to nurse a broken ego.
Still, even almost a year later, Swain couldn't let go. He needed a look at the case file, but he'd probably never get to see it. Instead, he'd be stuck in this hole forever. He just couldn't give up without knowing for sure.
The door burst open, and Dan Jamison entered. He coughed twice and waved his hand in front of his face. "Are you crazy?" he whined in his nasal pitch. "You can't smoke down here."
Rick turned his back and rolled his eyes.
"I'm not kidding, Rick. You know the rules."
Swain reached the edge of the room and propped one foot against the wall. He could picture himself out on the open land. He needed an assignment. He couldn't handle this desk work anymore. Why didn't something big happen in Alaska or Wyoming?
"Are you listening?"
Rick nodded his head and dipped a pretend hat.
"Oh no, you're channeling Wild Bill again. Are you going to tell me about the call or what?"
Rick shrugged. "What about it?"
"Play Cowboys and Indians on your own time, Swain. Mueller wants details."
Rick pitched himself upright at his boss's name. Mueller was the only one who might get Rick transferred out of the dungeon, if only Rick could get some time with him. "I've been trying to talk to—"
Jamison nodded. "He knows, Rick. It's a hectic time. Tell me about the call."
Rick sat at his desk and rested his folded hands on top. "Came in to
He blew the three stairs above where he stood and then moved toward the street. Beneath the bill of his cap, he peeked out at the detective.
The detective was copying down the license plate of the gardening truck in a notebook.
Smiling, he turned his back to the detective again, loving the rush the detective's attention brought to his groin.
He was too good. He had taken care of every detail, worked out every glitch. He'd found the perfect road into Casey's home, the perfect key. He would not be discovered, certainly not so easily as this. Let the detective check the license plate.
It was starting. The game he had waited so long to play was starting again. The police had nothing, but he had planned his next move. Already the score was in his favor.
Chapter 7
Rick Swain stood and took a deep drag on his cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and smashed it out with the toe of his cowboy boot. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. It was already five-thirty. By the time he hit the surface, it would be dark. Another day without light. He was going to go fucking nuts down here.
When he'd trained as a FBI agent, Swain had pictured high-adventure trips into foreign countries and forbidden lands. He would crack the codes of the enemy, break through their barriers and find whatever the Bureau needed. That was supposed to be his job. At least, that was what the Bureau had told him seven years ago.
Not anymore. These days, the best hackers were younger than his last haircut. They say he'd screwed up with McKinley in Cincinnati. They'd investigated it. He'd never seen the results of the investigation, never been given a full report. But he was to blame. He still didn't buy it. He'd installed the microphones himself. There had been no mistakes.
Damn if he knew what the hell had happened, but somehow that killer had gotten into her apartment and attacked Agent McKinley. Thankfully, her partner had come down the hall, heard something strange and gone to investigate. But not before the killer had done permanent damage. Swain had been blamed—he'd been the one who was supposed to hear everything that happened in McKinley's room.
Maybe the killer had deactivated the mikes. No one seemed to care enough to tell Swain. He wondered if McKinley knew. He had tried to contact her, to talk to her, but she'd told him to fuck off. Not that he blamed her. God knows it wasn't her fault. He'd just wished he'd had a chance to apologize—and explain. What good would it have done her? She'd been through hell, and he was trying to nurse a broken ego.
Still, even almost a year later, Swain couldn't let go. He needed a look at the case file, but he'd probably never get to see it. Instead, he'd be stuck in this hole forever. He just couldn't give up without knowing for sure.
The door burst open, and Dan Jamison entered. He coughed twice and waved his hand in front of his face. "Are you crazy?" he whined in his nasal pitch. "You can't smoke down here."
Rick turned his back and rolled his eyes.
"I'm not kidding, Rick. You know the rules."
Swain reached the edge of the room and propped one foot against the wall. He could picture himself out on the open land. He needed an assignment. He couldn't handle this desk work anymore. Why didn't something big happen in Alaska or Wyoming?
"Are you listening?"
Rick nodded his head and dipped a pretend hat.
"Oh no, you're channeling Wild Bill again. Are you going to tell me about the call or what?"
Rick shrugged. "What about it?"
"Play Cowboys and Indians on your own time, Swain. Mueller wants details."
Rick pitched himself upright at his boss's name. Mueller was the only one who might get Rick transferred out of the dungeon, if only Rick could get some time with him. "I've been trying to talk to—"
Jamison nodded. "He knows, Rick. It's a hectic time. Tell me about the call."
Rick sat at his desk and rested his folded hands on top. "Came in to
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