Tall, Dark and Deadly: Get Lucky. Suzanne Brockmann
to the Coronado detective who was sitting beside him.
Syd shook her head, no.
“From the Coronado PD?” he asked silently.
Zale had begun to speak, and Syd shook her head again, then pointedly turned her attention to the head of the table.
The San Felipe police chief spoke at length about stepping up patrol cars in the areas where the rapes had taken place. He spoke of a team that would be working around the clock, attempting to find a pattern in the locations of the attacks, or among the seven victims. He talked about semen samples and DNA. He glared at Syd as he spoke of the need to keep the details of the crimes, of the rapist’s MO—method of operation—from leaking to the public. He brought up the nasty little matter of the SEAL pin, heated by the flame from a cigarette lighter and used to burn a mark onto the bodies of the last two victims.
Navy Ken cleared his throat and interrupted. “I’m sure it’s occurred to you that if this guy were a SEAL, he’d have to be pretty stupid to advertise it this way. Isn’t it much more likely that he’s trying to make you believe he’s a SEAL?”
“Absolutely,” Zale responded. “Which is why we implied that we thought he was a SEAL in the article that came out in this morning’s paper. We want him to think he’s winning, to become careless.”
“So you don’t think he’s a SEAL,” the SEAL tried to clarify.
“Maybe,” Syd volunteered, “he’s a SEAL who wants to be caught.”
Navy Ken’s eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her, clearly thinking hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know just about everyone else here, but we haven’t been introduced. Are you a police psychologist?”
Zale didn’t let Syd reply. “Ms. Jameson is going to be working very closely with you, Lieutenant.”
Ms. not Doctor. Syd saw that information register in the SEAL’s eyes.
But then she realized what Zale had said and sat back in her chair. “I am?”
O’Donlon leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
Zale looked a little too pleased with himself. “Lieutenant Commander Francisco put in an official request to have a SEAL team be part of this task force. Detective McCoy convinced me that it might be a good idea. If our man is or was a SEAL, you may have better luck finding him.”
“I assure you, luck won’t be part of it, sir.”
Syd couldn’t believe O’Donlon’s audacity. The amazing part was that he spoke with such conviction. He actually believed himself.
“That remains to be seen,” Zale countered. “I’ve decided to give you permission to form this team, provided you keep Detective McCoy informed of your whereabouts and progress.”
“I can manage that.” O’Donlon flashed another of his smiles at Lucy McCoy. “In fact, it’ll be a pleasure.”
“Oh, ack.” Syd didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Navy Ken glanced at her in surprise.
“And provided,” Zale continued, “you agree to include Ms. Jameson in your team.”
The SEAL laughed. Yes, his teeth were perfect. “No,” he said, “Chief. You don’t understand. A SEAL team is a team of SEALs. Only SEALs. Ms. Jameson will—no offense, ma’am—only get in the way.”
“That’s something you’re just going to have to deal with,” Zale told him a little too happily. He didn’t like the Navy, and he didn’t like Syd. This was his way of getting back at them both. “I’m in charge of this task force. You do it my way, or your men don’t leave the naval base. There are other details to deal with, but Detective McCoy will review them with you.”
Syd’s brain was moving at warp speed. Zale thought he was getting away with something here—by casting her off on to the SEALs. But this was the real story—the one that would be unfolding within the confines of the naval base as well as without. She’d done enough research on the SEAL units over the past forty-odd hours to know that these unconventional spec-warriors would be eager to stop the bad press and find the San Felipe Rapist on their own. She was curious to find out what would happen if the rapist did turn out to be one of them. Would they try to hide it? Would they try to deal with punishment on their own terms?
The story she was going to write could be an in-depth look at one of America’s elite military organizations. And it could well be exactly what she needed to get herself noticed, to get that magazine editor position, back in New York City, that she wanted so desperately.
“I’m sorry.” O’Donlon started an awful lot of his sentences with an apology. “But there’s just no way a police social worker could keep up with—”
“I’m not a social worker,” Syd interrupted.
“Ms. Jameson is one of our chief eyewitnesses,” Zale said. “She’s been face to face with our man.”
O’Donlon faltered. His face actually got pale, and he dropped all friendly, easygoing pretense. And as Syd gazed into his eyes, she got a glimpse of his horror and shock.
“My God,” he whispered. “I didn’t…I’m sorry—I had no idea….”
He was ashamed. And embarrassed. Honestly shaken. “I feel like I should apologize for all men, everywhere.”
Amazing. Navy Ken wasn’t all plastic. He was at least part human. Go figure.
Obviously, he thought she had been one of the rapist’s victims.
“No,” she said quickly. “I mean, thanks, but I’m an eyewitness because my neighbor was attacked. I was coming up the stairs as the man who raped her was coming down. And I’m afraid I didn’t even get that good a look at him.”
“God,” O’Donlon said. “Thank God. When Chief Zale said…I thought…” He drew in a deep breath and let it out forcefully. “I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine…” He recovered quickly, then leaned forward slightly, his face speculative. “So…you’ve actually seen this guy.”
Syd nodded. “Like I said, I didn’t—”
O’Donlon turned to Zale. “And you’re giving her to me?”
Syd laughed in disbelief. “Excuse me, I would appreciate it if you could rephrase that….”
Zale stood up. Meeting over. “Yeah. She’s all yours.”
CHAPTER TWO
“HAVE YOU EVER BEEN HYPNOTIZED?” Lucky glanced over at the woman sitting beside him as he pulled his pickup truck onto the main drag that led to the naval base.
She turned to give him a disbelieving look.
She was good at that look. He wondered if it came naturally or if she’d worked to perfect it, practicing for hours in front of her bathroom mirror. The thought made him smile, which only made her glower even harder.
She was pretty enough—if you went for women who hid every one of their curves beneath androgynous clothes, women who never let themselves smile.
No, he mused, looking at her more closely as he stopped at a red light. He’d once dated a woman who’d never smiled. Jacqui Fontaine. She’d been a beautiful young woman who was so terrified of getting wrinkles she kept her face carefully devoid of all expression. In fact, she’d gotten angry with him for making her laugh. At first he’d thought she was joking, but she’d been serious. She’d asked him back to her apartment after they’d seen a movie, but he’d declined. Sex would have been positively bizarre. It would have been like making love to a mannequin. The thought still made him shudder.
This woman, however, had laugh lines around her eyes. Proof that she did smile. Probably frequently, in