Love Me to Death

TEN

There was a time when Sean could have gone either way—become a criminal mastermind or choose the law-abiding road. If he’d ever doubted that staying more or less on the side of the law was the right choice, he didn’t now.

Sean drove to the east side, the most depressed part of D.C., with his notes on known Morton and Scott associates who lived in the greater D.C. area. Their criminal enterprise had lasted nearly two decades, and while several of their associates were dead or in prison—and a few appeared to have cleaned up their act—most were still criminals ranging from petty to Mafia.

He had time to hit at least one today. Because she was the easiest to track down, he chose the lone female on the list.

Former prostitute Melinda Winslow had been released from prison six months ago after serving three years for possession of heroin with the intent to sell. It was her fourth conviction in eleven years. According to the information Jayne sent to Sean, she’d been a regular “star” at Trask Enterprises. When Trask closed up after Scott and Morton went underground following the murder of federal agent Paige Henshaw—Kate Donovan’s partner—Winslow lost control of her addiction and had spiraled farther downward.

When she answered the door of her hovel, Sean nearly left, certain he had the wrong person. Melinda Winslow was thirty-six; this woman looked fifty on a good day.

It was not a good day. If drugs didn’t kill you outright, they certainly sucked the life out of you.

“Well, fuck me, you pricks can waltz in here whenever you fucking please? Pig.”

“Hello, Ms. Winslow,” Sean said, mildly amused. “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Like I can? Last time one of you tossed me back in jail because I wouldn’t give you a blow job, and fuck that.”

She thought he was a cop, and Sean did nothing to dissuade her. He didn’t always see eye-to-eye with law enforcement. Some cops were just fine; others were too black-and-white for his taste. And some were, as Ms. Winslow so ungraciously stated, simply pricks.

“I don’t want to see you back in jail.”

She snorted, then rubbed her wet nose with the back of her hand. Sean wouldn’t be touching her or anything in her filthy apartment.

“I have only a couple questions, like I said. May I?”

“Like you need to ask.” She flung the door open, knocking a teetering stack of yellowed tabloid newspapers off a sagging bookshelf. She didn’t seem to notice, stepping over the fallen rags.

Sean stepped in, keeping his hands to himself. “You had a business relationship eleven years ago with two men—Adam Scott, also known as ‘Trask,’ and Roger Morton.”

At the mention of the names, her pasty face paled even more, then she thrust her chin out. “I haven’t seen them. Trask is dead, I heard. Roger in prison. I wouldn’t talk to him if he were the last john on the planet.”

“You were an employee of Trask Enterprises, correct?”

She cackled. “Employee. You know what I was. They paid me for sex tapes. It was legal, all legal—at least on my end it was.”

Sean highly doubted she reported her income to the Internal Revenue Service, but he didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t know what they were doing on the side. I fucking swear to God.”

“You associated with them for how long?”

“A few months. And then—a few times here and there when I needed the money. They paid more for hard-core action. But—shit, Trask nearly killed me once while getting off. Roger gave me two g’s to keep silent. Told me I was lucky I wasn’t dead, and not to come back or call. I didn’t. That was years ago. I went to jail after that, in Minnesota, for drugs. Cleaned myself up.” She nodded in pride. Sean noted the plethora of empty wine jugs around the apartment, and the stale smell of human body odor and spilled alcohol. Maybe she didn’t shoot heroin anymore, but she was still slowly killing herself.

“Did Roger contact you within the last six months?” he asked.

“No. And if he tried, I’d tell him to go to Hell.” She glared at Sean. “I thought he was in prison.”

“Yes, ma’am, he was. He was released on probation in July.”

She laughed, a hearty laugh, and Sean saw for a brief moment that she had once been a beautiful woman. “Probation? After the shit he did? I got three fucking years for drug possession, and he got what? Five? Ten? For prostitution, murder, drugs, and fuck knows what else.”

She pulled down the collar of her T-shirt, revealing her neck. “See this scar?”

Sean saw a two-inch scar at the base of her throat. His jaw tightened as his protective instincts surged.

“Roger did that to you?”

She shook her head and let go of her collar. “Trask. I thought I was dead. But Roger watched and then later he paid me. I heard they made a fortune on that tape of Trask fucking me. Roger did everything for that bastard. We all knew Trask was a psycho, and Roger covered for him. So why’d he get out?”

“Because the justice system is fucked.”

Sean dropped fifty dollars on her sofa and left, unable to stay another minute.

To say what happened with Morton was due to a messed-up justice system was the world’s greatest understatement. Winslow wasn’t a saint, but no one deserved to be treated as she had been, nearly killed in such a vicious manner. Adam Scott was the psychopath, but Morton had watched from the sidelines, helped clean up Scott’s messes, kept the damn trains running on time.

Sean slid into his black GT, shooting a glance at the teenage boys eyeing his ride. They didn’t bother him, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed him why. He looked ready for a fight.

He squealed into the street, maneuvering the muscle car as if it were an extension of himself. Driving usually gave him peace, but right now he felt nothing but deep, acid-building anger.

When Melinda Winslow showed him her scar, he pictured Lucy. He didn’t want to, he had never seen any scars on Lucy, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there under her clothes.

Sean found the nearest Beltway on-ramp. He needed to get on the highway and floor it. Right now, he sorely missed Northern California where he knew all the back roads he could virtually fly on when he needed to let off steam. Here, there were too many people, too many cars, in too small an area. He headed south toward Virginia in search of a long country road.

Winslow had spoken bluntly of her attack, but she hadn’t considered it an attack. She hadn’t been raped. Stupidly, she’d gone into the situation willingly, for money. Sean pitied her after seeing the fear in her eyes as she recalled nearly dying. Eleven years ago and she was still terrified.

It was the matter-of-fact answers, her language, her acceptance of the shit life handed her and her own culpability in her situation that had Sean’s head spinning. Lucy was the exact opposite. She had been kidnapped and wasn’t a willing participant in Adam Scott’s sex games. She’d been tortured, tormented, raped, and nearly killed because Adam Scott was a sadistic bastard who got off by hurting women.

Lucy hadn’t spoken of her ordeal with more than a few vague details, but he hadn’t expected her to. The murder of Roger Morton was bringing it back up to the surface. He could see that in her eyes, in the tension that filled every muscle. But he hadn’t put her in the role of a victim because Lucy never once acted like a victim. Until last night, when she’d cried and he’d held her. Sean would do anything in his power to take away her anguish.

He hit 395 south and moved smoothly around traffic, grateful that the intermittent sunshine had dried the roads from the snow earlier that week. It was three in the afternoon and rush hour was just starting, but he would stay ahead of it. He picked up speed, trying to block Winslow’s words from his mind, trying to stop picturing Lucy in her place.

Lucy was the strongest woman he’d ever met. She had to be to accomplish so much in such a short time, with the weight of her past sitting on her shoulders. But dammit, she shouldn’t have had to suffer at all! No woman should have suffered at the hands of Scott and Morton. The justice system was fucked, and Sean wanted to hit something.

But he wouldn’t. His release was driving, and he drove until his heart rate slowed back to normal, until he’d calmed himself enough to remember that both men were dead, they couldn’t hurt anyone again, they’d never touch Lucy.

The radar detector hidden in his dashboard beeped rapidly, and he instantly slowed down—shit, he was going ninety-five?—to seventy, maintaining complete control of his GT. But it was too late. The trooper came up behind him and flashed his lights.

Sean pulled over, not holding his breath that he’d be able to talk himself out of a ticket.

But he would have fun trying.