Pat Blake interrupted, “but if the Widow has had extensive plastic surgery, there’s no way she could make a one hundred percent positive ID. I want no room for reasonable doubt. This one isn’t going to walk away.”
Miller nodded. What they needed was to catch the killer in the act.
“She’s recently rented a beach house on Garden Isle,” Taylor continued. “That’s a clear indication that she’s intending to stay, although at this point, I don’t believe she’s targeted her next victim. I’ve compiled a list of all of the people—both men and women—whom our suspect has had contact with over the past several weeks. Out of forty-seven people, twenty-eight have since left the island. They were there only on vacation, and they’ve gone home. Out of the other nineteen, one in particular stands out.”
Taylor took a series of photos from his file, spreading them out on the table.
“Her name is Mariah Robinson,” he said. “Or so she says. According to our files, no such person exists. We’ve identified her as Marie Carver, former CEO of Carver Software out of Phoenix, Arizona.”
Miller leaned forward to look at the photographs. One was of a tall young woman with shoulder-length dark hair, wearing a bathing-suit top and shorts, seated on a beach blanket. Another bikini-clad woman was sitting next to her, her face obscured by a huge straw hat.
The woman in the hat had to be Serena Westford. Her barely there bikini was designed to make blood pressures rise, yet it was the woman sitting next to her that drew Miller’s eyes.
“Marie Carver—or Mariah Robinson as she calls herself—lives alone in a rented house on the island,” Taylor continued. “She spends most of her time on a private beach taking nature photographs. She has a darkroom in her cottage. Every few days, she goes off island—I don’t know where. I haven’t had the opportunity yet to follow her. She and Serena seem pretty tight.”
Mariah Robinson was more than tall, Miller realized. She was an Amazon—a goddess. She had to be only an inch or two shorter than his own six feet two inches. She was as tall as a man, but built entirely like a woman. Her breasts were full and generously proportioned to the rest of her body. Her hips were appropriately wide—enough so that she was probably self-conscious, hence the shorts. Her legs were impossibly long and well muscled.
Another picture caught her riding an ancient bicycle. She was going up a slight hill and standing above the seat, muscles straining in her legs, breasts tight against the cotton of her T-shirt.
Christ, what a body. There was so damned much of her.
Serena Westford was their Black Widow suspect. She had allegedly lured seven men to their deaths with her searing sexuality. She was a femme fatale in the most literal sense.
Yet it was this other woman, Mariah Robinson, who made Miller stand at attention. Of course, he’d always been a breast-and-leg man. And from what he could see from these pictures, she had more than enough of both. Enough for a man to sink into and lose himself in for a solid year or two.
God, what was wrong with him? He didn’t usually have this kind of reaction to the female suspects in a case. Apparently, it had been too long since his last sexual encounter. Way too long. Back even before Daniel came on as his partner. Miller couldn’t even remember when it was, or even whom he’d been with.
Maybe that was why he wasn’t sleeping. Maybe he would finally be able to sleep if a woman was in bed with him. Maybe all he needed was a little sexual relief.
Except the reason he hadn’t had sex since forever was because none of the women he’d met during that time had managed to turn him on.
Yet here he was, having a definite physical reaction from surveillance photos of a murderess’s best friend, who also happened to be living under an alias. What the hell was wrong with him?
And wasn’t it just his luck that it wasn’t going to be the goddess, but the murderess who was probably going to end up in his bed? And that sure as hell wasn’t going to make him sleep any better.
Miller picked up the fifth photo. It was a close-up of Mariah Robinson’s face.
She was pretty in a sweet, girl-next-door kind of way. Her face was heart shaped, with broad cheekbones and a strong, almost pointed chin. Her mouth was generous and wide. Her smile revealed straight white teeth and made dimples appear in her cheeks. Her eyes were light colored—Miller couldn’t tell from the black-and-white photo if they were blue or light brown. But they sparkled with some secret amusement, as if she were laughing at him.
Miller felt a swirl of anticipation deep in his gut. It was sexual energy combined with something else, something deeper and far more complicated. Something that made his pulse quicken. Something he couldn’t identify.
Captain Blake smoothed one hand along the top of his nearly bald head as he shuffled through his copy of the file. “How long do you think it’ll take till we can get a cover in place for an agent to portray potential husband material?” he asked.
“A week,” Taylor answered. “Two at the most. In order to match the profiles of the previous victims, we’d need to find an agent who could pose either as a much older man or a man in poor health. We’d need to provide fictional background, complete with financial records and heavily padded bank accounts. You can bet Serena will run a credit check on anyone she’s considering targeting. We’ll need to prep the agent, set up protection and a surveillance team—”
Miller sat forward. “I could be ready to go down to Garden Isle tomorrow.”
Taylor stared at him, unable to hide his expression of surprise. “You? You’re not old enough.”
“Husband number three was only twenty-nine years old,” Daniel pointed out mildly. “And husband six was in his mid-thirties.”
“Both were in extremely poor health, one in a wheelchair.”
Miller took two copies of his file from his briefcase, handed one to Blake and tossed the other onto the table in front of Steven Taylor. “Meet Jonathan Mills,” he said. “I’m thirty-nine years old. Recently in remission after a long struggle with Hodgkin’s disease—that’s a kind of cancer of the lymph system.”
Taylor opened the file and quickly skimmed Miller’s investigation summary. His eyes widened. “You actually intend to marry this woman…?”
“If I don’t, she won’t try to kill me.”
“You’re going to be her husband,” Taylor said. “You’re actually planning to sleep with her…?”
Even Daniel had a hint of curiosity in his dark brown eyes as he waited for Miller’s answer.
Pat Blake shook his head. “Should I not be hearing this?”
“Don’t worry, Captain, the marriage will be legal. She’ll be my wife,” Miller said. “And I’ll make a point to practice safe sex.” He smiled. “Of course, in her case, that means no knives in bed.” He stood up, scooping the photos and files off the table, and looked at Blake. “Am I good to go?”
The older man nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Daniel and Steven Taylor got to their feet, and Miller turned to leave the room.
“One moment, if you don’t mind, John,” Blake said. He waited until the younger agents had left his office, then stood up and closed the door behind them. “You look like crap.”
Miller knew Blake hadn’t missed the fact that his hands were shaking. “Too much coffee,” he said. “I’m fine, but thanks for your concern.”
Blake nodded, clearly not buying it for one second. “I know we haven’t exactly been friends down through the years, John. I’ve always just figured I’ll stay out of your way, let you do what you do best, and you’ll continue to give me the highest success record in the Bureau. But if you’ve got some kind of problem, maybe there’s something I can do to help.”