Unspeakable Read online

  The critics are hot

  for the compelling suspense novels of

  LAURA GRIFFIN

  UNTRACEABLE

  “Taut drama and constant action surge through the engrossing first book in Griffin’s Tracers series.… Griffin keeps the suspense high and the pace quick. A perfect combination of forensic science, mystery, romance, and action makes this series one to watch.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Top-notch romantic suspense! Fast pace, tight plotting, terrific mystery, sharp dialogue, fabulous characters… unforgettable.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan

  RITA Award nominee WHISPER OF WARNING

  “A perfectly woven and tense mystery with a sweet and compelling love story.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A roller-coaster ride filled with intrigue, murder, and toe-curling passion… irresistible characters and a plot thick with danger… a sexy and suspenseful read you won’t want to see end.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “A read you can’t put down. Will and Courtney have set off electric sparks that sizzle and burn throughout this tingling love story every time they meet to keep you reading far into the night.”

  —Suzanne Coleburn, The Belles & Beaux of Romance

  “Action, danger, and passion… a compellingly gripping story.”

  —SingleTitles

  “An exciting police procedural starring a wonderful cop and an intriguing ‘femme fatale.’”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  THREAD OF FEAR

  “Suspense and romance—right down to the last page. What more could you ask for?”

  —Publishers Weekly Online

  “Catapults you from bone-chilling to heartwarming to too hot to handle. Laura Griffin’s talent is fresh and daring.”

  —The Winter Haven (FL) News Chief

  “A tantalizing suspense-filled thriller. Enjoy, but lock your doors.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  ONE WRONG STEP

  “Griffin’s characters are well developed, the narrative complex, and the dialogue skillfully written in this suspenseful romance.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Griffin has more than proved that she is a force to be reckoned with in the world of romantic suspense novels. One Wrong Step is a sexy and thrilling novel that will keep readers turning the pages.”

  —Queue My Review

  “One Wrong Step starts with a bang and never lets up on the pace. Laura Griffin is an exceptionally talented author who has a knack for keeping her readers on the edge of their seats. The twists and turns of the story leave the LeMans racetrack in the dust.”

  —The Winter Haven (FL) News Chief

  “Imaginative scenarios, dynamic characters, and countless emotions combine to make One Wrong Step intriguing from beginning to end.”

  —SingleTitles

  “A first-rate romantic suspense story!”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  “Enjoyable, fast-paced romantic suspense.”

  —Publishers Weekly Online

  ONE LAST BREATH

  “Laura Griffin hits all the right notes—compelling characters, unexpected twists, and a gripping story from the first gasp to the last sigh.”

  —bestselling romantic suspense author Roxanne St. Claire

  “Heart-stopping intrigue and red-hot love scenes…

  One Last Breath rocks!”

  —The Winter Haven (FL) News Chief

  “An action-packed tale filled with passion and revenge.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Griffin’s fully fleshed characters, dry humor, and tight plotting make a fun read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This tasty debut mixes suspense and snappy humor with wonderful results.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “There is a new romantic suspense author in town. Laura Griffin’s debut novel, One Last Breath, is a strong blend of suspense and romance.”

  —All About Romance

  “Fast-paced romantic suspense with lots of surprises!”

  —FreshFiction

  Also by Laura Griffin

  UNTRACEABLE

  WHISPER OF WARNING

  THREAD OF FEAR

  ONE WRONG STEP

  ONE LAST BREATH

  And look for

  the next book in the Tracers series:

  UNFORGIVABLE

  Coming soon from Pocket Books

  LAURA

  GRIFFIN

  Unspeakable

  POCKET BOOKS

  NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Laura Griffin

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition July 2010

  POCKET BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your

  live event. For more information or to book an event contact the

  Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our

  website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Interior designed by Julie Schroeder.

  Cover design by Jae Song.

  Photo of river by Marco van Wijnbergen-stock.xchng.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5295-9

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6323-8 (ebook)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My heartfelt thanks to the amazing folks at the FBI Academy, particularly Carolyn Brew, Ladislao Carballosa, and Ron Peterman. Also at the FBI, thank you to Erik Vasys and Leslie Hoppey, who shared so much knowledge and experience. Other law enforcement and forensic experts have patiently answered my many questions and deserve thanks: Mark Wright, Phyllis Middleton, Jen Nollkamper, Chris Herndon, D. P. Lyle, Greg Moffatt, and Katherine Ramsland. Any mistakes I’ve made here are all mine.

  My sincere appreciation goes out to the dedicated team at Pocket, including Jae Song, Ayelet Gruenspecht, Danielle Poiesz, and especially Abby Zidle. And thank you to Kevan Lyon, a wonderful first reader and trusted friend.

  PROLOGUE

  Laguna Madre National Wildlife Refuge

  N 26° 13.767 W 097° 19.935

  1:03 P.M. CST

  Jamie Ingram had exactly twenty-seven minutes to score.

  Challenging, but not impossible, provided she didn’t get distracted. She loaded her supplies: binoculars, batteries, bug spray, extra water bottle. She tossed her keys into the backpack and zipped it.

  “Dude, this thing’s broken.”

  Jamie glanced through the windshield. The King of Distractions stood in front of her Jeep, gazing blankly down at the compass.

  She climbed out and slammed the door. “Don’t use it on the hood. It screws up the magnet.”

  Noah shrugged and handed her the compass. She slung the backpack over her shoulder and trekked off toward the trailhead. They were going due south three-quarters of a mile, and then it looked as though they’d be off-roading it east through some brush. Jamie noted the BEWARE OF ALLIGATORS sign. Three glossy black crows perched atop it, staring at her.

  She smelled something sweet and glanced over her shoulder. “You coming?”

  He sucked in some smoke. Shook his head. Jamie knew tromping around in the wilderness wasn’t his thing, but he’d seen her excitement when she’d found this posting on the Internet and had figured out this stash was likely to contain something interesting.

  “Finders keepers,” she said.

  He pushed off the hood and trudged over. “It’s fuckin’ hot. Why do we have to do this now?”

  Because she had to be back on the island for a shift that started at two o’clock—not that he cared.

  “No one’s making you come.”

  He passed her the joint, and she took a drag as he stripped off his T-shirt. She gazed at his tan, muscular surfer’s body and remembered why she put up with him. He tucked his shirt into the back of his cargo shorts and pulled his blond dreadlocks back with a rubber band.

  “Okay, let’s head,” he said, taking back the joint.

  Jamie led the way over the narrow mesquite-lined trail. She navigated while he clomped behind, muttering at every thorn and sticker burr. He should have been wearing hiking boots like hers, but she was pretty sure he didn’t own anything besides flip-flops.

  The ground
became spongy as they veered east off the trail. Patches of water shimmered through the thinning brush, and she thought of the alligator sign.

  “We’re nearly to the coast,” she said. “This can’t be right.”

  Jamie checked the clue she’d decrypted from the Web site: Follow the yellow brick road. The only yellow she’d seen were the wildflowers along the trail. Was that what the clue meant? Sometimes these clever little hints were more annoying than helpful.

  “You lost already?”

  She ignored Noah and consulted her GPS again, trying to figure out what she’d missed. She scanned the area. About twenty yards out, the mesquite trees gave way to cattails, then endless marsh. The breeze whipped up, and something foul assaulted her nostrils. A large brown bird soared over them and swooped down at the edge of the foliage. Another followed.

  Buzzards.

  “There’s something dead over there,” she said, picking her way through the knee-high grass. Mosquitoes swarmed around her face and neck, and she swatted them away. Up ahead, the reeds rustled, and she saw a flap of feathers. Could it be… ?

  She took a step closer. The reeds shifted again, and a cloud of flies rose up.

  She stopped moving. Her blood ran cold.

  “Hey, what is it?”

  Her stomach heaved. Her throat closed around the words.

  “Jamie? Come on, what is it?”

  “It’s a girl.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Lito Island, Texas

  N 26° 14.895 W 097° 11.280

  24 hours later

  The police station was quiet.

  Alarmingly quiet.

  Elaina McCord pulled into the empty lot and parked in the space closest to the entrance. She shoved open the car door and got out, sighing at the faint stirring of air. Not a breeze, exactly, but not too far off. For a moment, she stood beside the Taurus to get her bearings.

  She scooped her hair off her neck and twisted it into some semblance of a bun. Her poly-blend Filene’s Basement pantsuit concealed her holster but didn’t breathe. She should have sprung for something silk, but when she’d purchased her career wardrobe, she’d been thinking D.C. or New York. In a million years she never would have guessed she’d end up in Brownsville, Texas—a satellite of a satellite office, a thousand miles from anywhere she wanted to be.

  Except today.

  Today Lito Island Police Chief Matt Breck had called Brownsville to request federal assistance in solving a string of homicides. Most likely he was expecting a pair of veteran agents in crew cuts and dark suits.

  Instead, he was getting a rookie in a Donna Karan knockoff.

  Elaina smoothed her lapels and gathered her determination. She slammed the door shut, locked the car, and hiked up half a dozen wooden steps so a cardboard sign could tell her what she already knew.

  The place was deserted.

  BE BACK SOON. The black hands on the clock had been positioned for ten-thirty. Elaina glanced up at the sun blazing directly down on top of her. She cupped her hand and peered through the tinted glass door to the darkened offices beyond. The place looked to be shut down.

  Who shuts down a police station?

  What the hell planet was this?

  Elaina huffed out a breath and turned around. Beyond the minuscule lot, a row of tall palm trees bordered Highway 106, otherwise known as Lito Highway because it was the only highway in town and ran the entire twenty-two-mile length of the island. The first two miles, Elaina had discovered, were crammed with motels, restaurants, and surf shops. The last twenty miles consisted of God only knew what. From the map, it looked as though the road disappeared into the Lito Island Wildlife Refuge just south of town. She turned her gaze that way now and saw grass and water and what looked like never-ending acres of swamp.

  Or estuary. Whatever.

  A weathered wooden deck surrounded the dormant police station, and Elaina followed it around to the back, taking care not to let her low black heels catch on the uneven slats. The white adobe station house reflected the sun like a mirror. It backed up to Laguna Madre, the bay that separated Lito from the mainland. Elaina averted her gaze from the glare as she made her way to the back of the building. A speck of movement on the water caught her eye.

  A boat. Moving in her direction, too, which meant it was either heading toward the police dock or the cleverly named Lito Island Marina just next door.

  The boat drew nearer. Some sort of official logo marked the side of it, and Elaina counted at least four passengers standing behind whoever was at the helm. Her stomach tightened as she thought about the fifth passenger, whom she knew would be lying on the floor.

  The boat zipped past the police dock before making a wide turn and gliding up to the marina. The wake splashed up through the wooden slats, soaking Elaina’s shoes.

  Water squished through her toes as she picked her way across the thick carpet of Saint Augustine grass separating the station house from the marina. SUVs and pickups crammed the gravel lot. She spotted two police units and a red Suburban with LIFD painted on the side.

  Elaina ducked around the side of the corrugated metal building, passing a leathery man toting an empty crab trap, then a pair of teenagers carrying yellow bait buckets. Next to a humming Coke machine, a man stood smoking a cigarette and watching her. She passed a wooden fish sink and a balding, bearded guy who paused in the act of hacking off a fish head to stare at her. Ignoring all the curious gazes, Elaina focused on the end of the pier.

  The boat’s captain—Chief Breck?—barked out an order, and a man in a khaki uniform hopped down from the vessel to tie the bowline to a cleat.

  Two uniformed men bent down in unison and lifted something off the boat’s floor. Elaina watched, shocked, as they manhandled the long black bundle onto the pier, where they laid it out in the sun. Finally, the captain disembarked.

  Elaina strode forward. “Chief Breck?”

  His gaze shot up and turned instantly suspicious beneath the bill of his LIPD cap. “Yeah?”

  She stopped before him and looked up at the guarded expression in his brown eyes.

  “I got no comment at this time,” he stated.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re with the Herald, right?” His gaze skimmed over her suit, pausing on her wet cuffs, then snapped back up to her face. “Or maybe you’re TV? Either way, I got no comment as of yet, so —”

  “I’m with the FBI.” Elaina thrust out her hand. “Special Agent Elaina McCord.”

  His eyebrows popped up, disappearing beneath the hat.

  “You called Brownsville this morning?” she reminded him as his baffled gaze dropped to her hand. “Requested assistance?”

  His brow furrowed now, and Elaina gave up on the handshake. He looked her over once again. She peered around him at the body bag laid out on the dock. A white-haired man in street clothes stood beside it. The ME?

  “Why don’t you step on over there?” Breck gestured back toward the building. “Someone’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Elaina gritted her teeth but complied with his request by stepping back a few paces. It wouldn’t be wise to piss off the police chief in her first homicide investigation. She crossed her arms and looked on as Breck turned his back on her and exchanged words with his officers.

  Smoke wafted over to her. Elaina glanced at the Coke machine, where the man with the cigarette still stood, his shoulder propped casually against the door frame. Something about his steady, penetrating look gave her goose bumps.

  She glanced away.

  A flurry of feathers erupted as the man at the sink tossed some guts into the water and the seagulls scrambled. A giant brown pelican flapped over to snatch away the prize, then perched on the dock as he gobbled it down.

  Elaina glanced around, taking mental notes. The teenagers had disappeared but the crabber still lurked nearby, his arms folded over his chest and his trap at his feet while his attention remained fixed on the body bag. Elaina memorized his face, then scanned the rest of the area for suspects. Some perps liked to hang around and observe the aftermath of what they’d done. Elaina counted nine spectators at the moment, including a shirtless, sun-baked twenty-something with blond dreadlocks. He had his arm draped over a young woman’s shoulders, and they watched the end of the pier with morbid fascination.