Читать книгу Ambushed At Christmas - Barb Han - Страница 11

This conversation wasted valuable time. It was late. Days on the ranch started early. Deacon had often joked with his brothers and sister that he could remember a time when 4:00 a.m. was the time to end the night, not begin a day. Being a Kent was a privilege, make no mistake about it, but one that came with obligations.

Deacon figured he could tap dance around the subject with the detective all night but decided to get to the point. As far as the murder, he considered it ranch business. “That’s exactly why I came, to see the crime scene.”

“You taking pictures on your phone?” Disgust came through clearly as soon as she unclenched her back teeth to speak. She’d probably seen just about everything in her line of work, including crazy folks who had morbid obsessions with death and murder sites.

“Check for yourself.” He gave her a look before fishing his cell from his pocket and holding it between them.

She took the offering and scrolled through his photo log. He hoped the offer would buy a little trust. Instead, as she scanned the pictures, she started rocking her head. “I know why your name sounded familiar now. Your family owns half of Texas, Wyoming and Idaho.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” She had the states right, just not the quantity of land.

“Cattle ranchers,” she continued, ignoring his comment, seeming like she was on a roll and would connect the dots as to why he was really there at any minute.

“That’s right.” They were cattle ranchers but owning mineral rights to their land had made his family fortune. It had also freed them from some of the pressures of cattle ranching. A bad year or a severe drought wouldn’t put them out of business. It also gave them ample space to take risks and create innovation. They’d been pioneers in the organic beef market.

The puzzle pieces clicked together so loudly in the detective’s mind he could almost hear them.

“You’re here because of the...” She met his gaze. This close, he could see the cinnamon flecks in her eyes.

“Severed foot,” he finished for her when her sentence dovetailed into silence.

“I read an article a few days ago about the heifers on your ranch turning up with severed left hooves,” she continued.

“Two other ranches have called to report the same crimes. Which brings us up-to-date with why I’m here,” he stated.

In a flash her expression changed. It was like she’d put in a quarter and hit all three numbers on the slot machine. “And you think the guy who’s been killing cattle has moved on to people.”

“Isn’t that how it usually works? Don’t most serial killers start with animals?” he asked.

“Yes. They usually start with something smaller, though.” Detective Cordon continued to take him apart with her stare. Now she looked like she was trying to determine if he needed a trip to Golden Pond Mental Hospital.

“Found three rabbits along Rushing Creek. Carcasses had been pretty picked through and they were in advanced stages of decay, all missing a front left paw.”

Now her brain really fired on all cylinders.

“I don’t remember reading anything about that,” she admitted. Her tone was laced with accusation.

He understood the implication. They’d just been found. Everyone on the ranch was being investigated. “The information will be out soon. As it is, we’ve had our fair share of crazies popping out of the woodwork with leads. Jacobstown is a small community. People are scared. They see this as some kind of omen.” He could tell by her reaction that the detective didn’t like to be the one on the light side of important information.

“You’d think he’d put out a bulletin right away,” she said.

“About rabbits that could have been caught in illegal traps and had their paws chopped off to free them?” Deacon issued a grunt. “The town’s already in a panic over the heifers. Folks aren’t used to crime. It’s not like here in the city. People don’t lock their doors where I’m from. Or at least they didn’t used to.”

“Everyone should lock their doors, Mr. Kent.” She stuck his phone out between them. “A criminal could strike anywhere, anytime. They like easy marks.”

Deacon chuckled. He couldn’t help himself.

“What’s that about?”

“Old Lady Rollick once shot at a friend of mine for sneaking onto her back porch to get a bite of one of her famous peach pies. Folks in Jacobstown can take care of themselves,” he stated.

“Yeah?” she fired back. “Well, the scum I’m used to dealing with wouldn’t be sneaking onto a porch to steal dessert.”

“Peach pie,” he corrected.

“I reported you. A beat cop will be here any minute to investigate.” The detective jerked an earbud out of her pocket and tucked it in her left ear. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to finish my run.”

As she made a move to take off, Deacon caught her arm.

“Can I ask you a question?” He mustered as much politeness as he could.

Her gaze held on to his hand and then lifted to his eyes. There was no amusement.

“What?”

“Why are you out here alone after what happened?”

“THIS IS MY TRAIL,” Leah said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. Deacon Kent’s serious gray-blue eyes scrutinizing her were throwing her off-kilter. She reholstered her weapon, resting her hand on the butt for comfort and because she needed to touch something to push her reset button. Her fingers still tingled with sensations from touching the good-looking cowboy.

“You weren’t scared to come out here alone after what happened last night?” It seemed like it was his turn to dig information out of her. She figured, with his connections, after one phone call from him to headquarters she’d be hauled into the chief’s office to explain why she’d accused a Texas millionaire—billionaire?—of tampering with a crime scene. She hadn’t specifically accused him and there was something about the cowboy—those serious eyes sure seemed honest—that almost had her believing he wouldn’t play that card. But she hadn’t made detective at the age of thirty by taking people for their word or letting every good-looking male off the hook.

She pulled out her earbud and stuck it in between them. “That’s why I only use one earbud. Keep the other one free to listen so no one surprises me.”

“But I caught you off guard and that’s why your heart’s still thumping. Anyone else could’ve done the same thing.” He emphasized his point by dropping his gaze to the base of her throat, causing all kinds of heat to flush her cheeks.

“I was jogging. That’s why my heart was, is, racing.” Kent placated her by letting that little lie fly by. Being courteous must have been part of his Cowboy Code. “The path isn’t that busy at this time of night. It’s not rush hour. It’s not isolated, either.”

He shot her a look of disbelief, but she had no plans to detail out how hard she’d fought against her fears and why it was even more important to her now to face them.

“You can take those gloves off.”

He did, and her traitorous heart fluttered in her chest like a schoolgirl crush when she saw there was no ring on his left-hand finger. She told herself that she was just doing her job. It was true enough. She did get paid to notice things.

“Mr. Kent—”

“Call me Deacon,” he insisted.

She didn’t like being informal with someone she’d considered a possible suspect a few minutes ago, but figured if she threw him a few bones, he’d walk away without a formal complaint. The other irritating part about him was how much his voice—a dark ale kind of timbre—trailed down her spine, causing tingles she didn’t even want to consider. “Deacon.” His first name sounded less awkward coming out of her mouth than she’d expected. That little tinge of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips almost made her feel like he enjoyed hearing it. “I can see that your intentions are good, if misguided.”

He started to cut her off but she held her finger up to quiet him. The move would probably be gasoline on a fire.

Instead of flying off the handle, he smiled a smug smile, folded his arms and leaned back against the tree like they were old friends having a casual conversation. This guy was too smooth and full of contradictions. His calloused hands said he worked hard but a man with his family money wouldn’t have to work a day. His tanned olive skin said he spent his days outside. He was tall and strong; she’d seen his jeans stretch against seriously muscled thighs when he walked.

Normally, sizing someone up for a threat didn’t seem invasive or personal in the way being with Deacon Kent did.

“I can understand your interest in this case. However, I shouldn’t need to warn you the person responsible is dangerous. You might think investigating on your own is smart, but—” A tree branch snapped a few feet away, causing her to jump. She pulled out her phone and put on the flashlight app before bringing the light to a small brush.

Deacon was already investigating. He’d covered the distance between them and the brush in seconds. He was fast.

Leah swept the area and then moved behind him.

“It’s nothing. Animals,” he said, sitting back on his heels. His hands were on his knees when he turned his head.

A scream split the air.

Deacon hopped to his feet and started toward the cry for help as Leah darted to his side. She’d drawn her gun and was sweeping the area from side to side with it as she tore toward the sound.

Around the next turn, a man stood over a woman who was rocking back and forth on the ground.

The cowboy ducked behind a tree almost at the same time as Leah. She noted his familiarity with law enforcement tactics.

“Get your hands in the air where I can see them and stay right where you are,” Leah commanded.

The man, who wore a hoodie, took a couple of steps back and thrust his hands in the air.

“Freeze,” Leah said. She appreciated Deacon not going rogue and trying to take over the situation. Some people would. She kept one eye on Hoodie while she asked the woman, “Where are you hurt?”

“My leg. I tripped over something,” the woman managed to shout in bursts through forced breaths. “Didn’t see those rocks and rolled my ankle.”

“I’m going to get you some help. First, I need a little more information.” She could see the woman was in agony. One of the first rules of good policing was never run to an injured party. The man standing over her could use the move to his advantage and attack. Or, this could be a setup to throw her off base where she could be ambushed. There could be others waiting to jump out from the nearby brush. Leah had been trained not to take the chance. Given that she had a three-year-old son who’d be orphaned if anything happened to her, she doubled down on cautious police work. Her primary goal at the beginning of every shift—like most officers she knew—was to make it home to loved ones safely.

“You, sit down and keep your hands where I can see them,” Leah demanded of the man.

He dropped down.

Leah wasn’t quite ready to holster her gun. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Stacy Rutledge.” She was rocking back and forth faster.

“Mind if I check on her?” Deacon asked.

“Go ahead,” Leah stated.

“You with the hoodie. What’s your name?” she asked the man sitting back on his heels with his hands folded around the back of his neck.

“Kevin Lee,” the man said.

For all she knew, Kevin wasn’t really his name. He might’ve intended to take advantage of a woman who’d been injured on her run. Of course, he didn’t have to be the murderer from last night in order to be a criminal. There were plenty of other types of crimes against women. Her imagination was running wild, getting the best of her on this one and she knew it.

She thought about the fact that there’d been no witnesses to the crime last night, no description of the perp.

Tonight’s run had been a bad idea from the start.

No matter how hard she’d tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

“Show me your face,” Leah demanded.

“I need to move my hands to do that.” Kevin sounded scared and confused. His reaction said he was caught off guard and most likely didn’t have criminal intent.

“Only enough to remove your hoodie,” she stated with authority.

He complied, revealing short black hair. He had a prominent nose set on an otherwise average clean-cut face. No warning bells sounded based on his looks but she had no description of the man from last night’s deadly attack to work with and no criminal profile yet. Whoever had attacked Jillian Mitchell had been strong enough to drag her off the trail, subdue her and then sever her right ankle. Her body had been carried deeper into the brush. Dirt underneath her fingernails indicated she’d put up a good fight. There were other signs, bruises on her body.

Maybe the investigator would get lucky and get a DNA hit.

It was presumed the suspect had worn gloves.

Investigators were still trying to determine if Jillian was murdered by someone she knew—which was the most likely case for a female—or if the attack had been random. Someone close to her would know her evening routine. The person had to be strong enough to subdue Jillian, drag her off the trail and carry her through the trees based on the fact that there were no signs of her being dragged there. Leah was certain she’d seen the woman before. The same people came out night after night. She’d found the same to be true in the mornings, too. After her rookie year she’d been placed on the deep night shift. The excitement and stress of the job caused her to start jogging in order to wind down enough to sleep during the day. Her clock had been turned upside down in those years. The routine comforted her.

“What are you doing here, Kevin?” An obvious question but one that had to be asked.

“Jogging.” His voice was incredulous.

Of course, everyone feared a serial killer in the making but a next-day attack would have been unlikely in this scenario. Seasoned serial killers took time to bake.

The lead investigator happened to be her ex and although she’d believed the split was amicable—it had been a long time coming—Charles Dougherty had been short with her ever since. Six months had passed now. With his attitude, she was beginning to question whether or not he’d agreed with her assessment or if he’d been playing along so she wouldn’t realize how much the breakup actually had hurt.

She’d overheard a fellow officer refer to her as Cold-Fish Cordon when she’d walked past the men’s locker room. Charles had laughed, not defended her.

And that was just the beginning of the cold-shoulder treatment she’d been getting from him ever since.

“Any other reason you’re out here tonight, Kevin?” she asked.

“Other than my nightly run? No,” he said with a quizzical look.

A good investigator asked every question, and especially the ones she thought she knew the answers to. Because every once in a while a witness answered wrong and gave her the leverage she needed to keep digging.