Читать книгу Christmas Crime in Colorado - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 7

Reaching up, Michael grasped the wrist of the woman who hung from the heavy rope, trying to find a pulse. Nothing. Not even a flutter. Her skin felt as cold as a gutted trout. She smelled like feces. In his ten years on the Birmingham PD, Michael had only seen one other hanging. But he didn’t need a coroner to tell him this woman was deceased.

He glanced toward Brooke. Though she stood very still with the butcher knife clutched in her fist, her blue eyes were alive, darting in restless panic.

“We need to cut her down,” she said in a shaky voice. “She might just be unconscious. I know CPR.”

He suspected that she already knew her roommate was dead, but he didn’t feel it was the moment to state that painful truth out loud. “You said there was someone else in the house.”

“I think so.” She pointed toward the sliding glass doors. “Over there. I think he was dressed in black.”

“Gloves?”

“I don’t know.”

“How tall?”

“Don’t know. Average.”

“Did you recognize him?” She refused to look directly at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It was all too fast.” Her features twisted in anguish. “I’m not sure he was really there.”

It took guts to admit that she was freaked out, but he hoped her possible delusion wasn’t symptomatic. “Has that happened to you before? Seeing things that aren’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking any medications?”

Her chin lifted. “We don’t have time to talk about any of that. We need to help Sally.”

Whether she was delusional or not, she was in serious denial about Sally’s condition. He wished that he knew more about Brooke Johnson, that he’d taken more time to research her personal history before he’d tracked her down. “First, we need to make sure there’s no one else in the house. I want you to come with me. We’ll start upstairs.”

Holding his gun at the ready, he climbed the staircase with Brooke right behind him. When he pushed open the door to the first bedroom, he saw chaos. Unmade bed. Curtains torn askew. Dirty dishes piled on the bedside table. Clothes draped everywhere. “Could be there was a struggle in here.”

“Actually,” Brooke said, “this is the way it always looks.”

Michael nodded, making a mental note to search Sally’s cluttered desktop later for a suicide note. “Okay, let’s check the other rooms.”

At the opposite end of the open balcony was Brooke’s neat room—a major contrast to the chaos left behind by her roommate. The open door of her closet revealed a neat row of plastic hangers with all the shirts facing the same direction. From the clean surface of her dresser and her desk with a closed laptop to the autumnal quilt on her double bed, this space reflected someone who valued order. When she reached down to straighten the brown rug on the hardwood floor beside the bed, he stopped her.

“Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”

Her spine stiffened as if offended by his statement. “This is my home. It’s supposed to be a place where I feel safe.”

With her thick reddish-brown hair and delicate features, she was a whole lot more attractive than her driver’s license photo. Other than that obvious observation, he didn’t know what to make of Ms. Brooke Johnson. Though she was upset, she hadn’t lost control, which showed an admirable strength of character. On the other hand, she might have seen a man who wasn’t there.

She held herself with an aloof poise. Cool, but not cold—not an ice princess. Earlier today, when he talked to her at that high-priced accessory boutique, she’d been friendly, even laughed at his lame jokes. He’d liked her enough that he’d held off telling her why he sought her out. He had wanted to wait, to build trust. Now, he feared that his hesitation might have proved fatal for her roommate. If he had to guess, he would say that Sally’s death was not a suicide.

The wail of an approaching ambulance siren cut through the night. He looked toward the window. “The paramedics will be here real soon.”

She stepped into the hallway and leaned her back against the wall, her gaze fastened on the heavy rope tied around the banister. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“There’s nothing you could have done to save her.”

“I was so angry at her. She was driving me crazy with her clutter and her idiot boyfriends. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” Her words gushed out. Like a confession. “When I came home tonight, I was going to confront her. She had to shape up or get out. I should have been more understanding. I should have tried harder.”

“This isn’t your fault, Brooke.”

What he was about to tell her would make her feel a lot worse than she did right now, but there was no way to avoid the truth. The police would be here in minutes, and Michael was obligated to give them an explanation for why he’d shown up on Brooke’s doorstep.

He holstered his gun and stepped in front of her. “I want you to listen to me. Listen carefully.”

“Why is this happening? Why?”

“Brooke, look at me.”

When she lifted her face, he saw confusion and anger. He wished there was time to be gentle, but he’d missed that opportunity. “Three years ago in Atlanta,” he said, “you were on a jury.”

“What?” She shook her head as if his words were incomprehensible.

“You have to remember.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He stepped back, aware that she still had the knife. “I don’t know who you are. Don’t care what you have to say.”

“You’ve got to hear this.”

“Leave me alone.”

When she started toward the stairs, he easily grabbed her wrist and gave it a flick. The butcher knife clattered to the hardwood floor. He held both her arms, forcing her to stand still. “Listen to me.”

Her teeth bared in a snarl. “Let go of me.”

“Do you remember the trial?”

“Armed robbery,” she snapped. “The guy was guilty.”

“His name was Robert E. Lee Warren, known as Robby Lee. Six weeks ago, he was killed in a prison fight.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The ambulance siren was right outside the door. The emergency lights flashed against the walls of the living room.

“You were juror number four,” he said. “The first three people on that jury list are dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone is killing off the jurors who convicted Robby Lee. You’re the next name on that list.”

As his words sank into her consciousness, the fight seemed to drain from her body. Her blue eyes widened. “You’re talking about a serial killer.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s coming after me?”

“I’m sorry, Brooke.” He loosened his grip on her arms, putting his right hand on her shoulder.

She wrenched free. “Why do you care? This is my life. I’ll take care of myself.”

As she turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs, he gave her points for spirit and guts. But she was way out of her league.

It was up to him to make sure she stayed alive.

BROOKE HUDDLED in the backseat of Deputy George McGraw’s spotless SUV. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around a mug of herbal tea that had gone cold as she stared at her house. So much for a safe haven. As Michael had so calmly pointed out, her A-frame was a crime scene.

She rubbed at her bare wrist, wishing that she’d worn her watch when she left the house this morning. The gold Cartier with the cream-colored face had been taken away with Sally’s body in an ominously silent ambulance. Brooke had no idea how much time had passed since the police arrived. It seemed like only minutes, but it must have been longer—much longer. So much had happened. Deputy McGraw had taken her statement. Official vehicles had arrived and departed. Right now, there were several officers tromping up and down the steep hills and forest surrounding her house, waving flashlights and snapping photographs.

Her jaw clenched as she watched. She wanted them all to leave. Her preferred method for coping with stress was to hide away by herself and find something to keep her hands busy. Her fingers itched to do something useful. Busywork. Instead of sitting here, mired in worry, she wanted to start cleaning. She’d scrub every surface in the house, wash her roommate’s dirty dishes, pack up her belongings and send them to…where? She drew a blank, unable to recall if Sally had ever mentioned where she came from, or her parents’ address, or even if she had brothers and sisters.

Sadness welled up inside her. Her roommate had lived in the moment with the volume cranked up high. For Sally, every word was a song. Every step, a dance. She partied all night and still had enough energy to go hiking at dawn. But that was all Brooke really knew about her.

As Brooke stared toward the house, her vision blurred with rising tears. She should have paid more attention to Sally, should have appreciated her exuberant appetite for life instead of complaining about the noise.

Outside the back door that led to her kitchen, she saw Deputy McGraw conferring with Michael, who had been readily accepted by the local officers as soon as he showed his badge. He glanced toward her with his cool jade eyes, his thumb hitched in the pocket of his jeans next to the holster on his belt.

She was still angry about their confrontation outside her bedroom. He’d knocked the knife from her hands, grabbed her arms without permission; she’d be well within her rights to charge him with assault.

But she hadn’t been harmed. And he’d touched her with strength, not cruelty. Instinctively, she knew he didn’t want to hurt her. He was there to help. When he’d forced her to listen to him, she saw the worry in his expression—a deep and abiding concern for her safety. For an instant, she’d wanted to accept his protection and take shelter in his arms.

Then sanity had returned. She didn’t know anything about this guy and didn’t want to believe his story about someone killing jurors from that trial three years ago. It didn’t make sense. If there really was such a serial killer, the FBI would investigate, wouldn’t they?

She’d be nuts to trust this good-looking cop from Alabama. The fact that Michael had come all the way across the country to warn her was decidedly strange. Why hadn’t he just picked up the phone and called? Now that he’d delivered the information, what did he intend to do?

The car door opened, and Deputy McGraw climbed inside. A huge, barrel-chested man with a walrus mustache, he took up a lot of space as he settled on the backseat beside her and closed the door.

“How are you holding up, Brooke?”

“I have some questions.” She forced herself to stay calm, kept all the turmoil hidden inside.

“Maybe I can give you some answers,” McGraw rumbled in a deep, gravelly voice. “Go ahead and ask.”

“When I first saw Sally, I thought she might be…” She pushed the thought away before a clear memory could take shape. “Was there anything I could have done?”

“According to the coroner, her neck snapped and she died immediately. You couldn’t have saved her.”

Not unless I’d been here. Not unless I’d been more understanding, more protective. “Was it suicide?”

“Did she seem depressed? Nervous?”

She shook her head. “Did you know Sally?”

“Gave her a speeding ticket once. She was a real live wire. Maybe a little bit of a party girl.” Though he growled, like rocks in a tumbler, there was no animosity in his tone. “Did Sally Klinger have a lot of boyfriends?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Anybody special?”

She concentrated, remembering a parade of tanned, outdoorsy young men. “There was one. Streaky blond hair. A tattoo of a lightning bolt on his wrist. Tyler?”

“Tyler Hennessey? The X Games snowboarder?”

“That sounds right. Sally was teaching snowboarding at the ski school.” She’d suggested that Brooke try snowboarding in addition to her beginner skiing lessons. Joking, Sally had promised to show her the “ups and downs” of snowboarding. “Why would she kill herself? She seemed to love her life here.”

“You knew her better than I did.”

“We didn’t really get along, to be honest,” Brooke said.

There was no point in sugarcoating their relationship. Just this afternoon, she’d been complaining about her roommate to Hannah Lewis, the owner of the boutique where she worked. Guiltily, Brooke remembered saying that she could just kill Sally.

The deputy cleared his throat. “Did your roommate ever mention her husband?”

Brooke gasped. “Sally was married?”

“I’m guessing they’re separated. His residence is Denver, but we haven’t been able to reach him.”

The fact that Sally had a husband made it seem possible that she’d been murdered as part of a love triangle. A jealous husband might want revenge on his wayward wife. “You never answered my question about suicide.”

“I won’t have a definite answer until after we’ve done a bit more investigating.” The big man settled back in his seat and exhaled, frowning. Beneath his mustache, he frowned. “Looks like suicide. She could’ve slung the rope around her neck and jumped.”

Not something Brooke wanted to think about. She suppressed a shudder.

“But I’m not so sure,” McGraw said. “For one thing, she didn’t leave a note. For another, there’s your statement.You said you might have seen a man outside the sliding glass doors.”

“He didn’t speak.” On that point, she was clear. “Did you find footprints on the deck?”

“Sorry, Brooke. This snow is half mush and half ice. If we’d had a nice coat of new snow, we would have had a better shot at corroborating your story. Tell me about the guy again.”

“He seemed to be wearing black. I thought he started to open the sliding glass doors.” She hated to think of herself so caught up in a delusion that she’d threatened the air with an axe. “I wish I could give you a better description. I was scared.”

“You must have been relieved when Detective Shaw turned up. He seems like a decent guy.”

“Has he told you about the serial killer?”

The deputy nodded. “Heck of a thing.”

It seemed that Deputy McGraw believed Michael’s story. Of course, he would. Lawmen always stuck together as a matter of professional courtesy. When she’d taken out a restraining order against her ex-husband—a district attorney—the police didn’t believe her. They stood behind Thomas in a solid blue wall and made her feel like a nutcase.

Irritated, she said, “I thought the FBI handled serial killer investigations.”

“That’s right. I put in a call to the Denver office.”

“Why?”

“We need to consider all the possibilities. Let’s just suppose that Michael’s theory is right on target. A killer coming after you might have mistakenly attacked Sally. You two gals look enough alike to be sisters.”

Brooke closed her eyes. Had Sally died in her place? Was Sally’s death her fault? Her shoulders slumped, weighed down beneath a mantle of guilt.

“Are you okay?” McGraw asked.

No. I’ll never be okay again. She couldn’t allow herself to believe that she was responsible for Sally’s death. She had to stay in control. In a small voice, she said, “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been through a lot tonight. Suicide is bad enough. But murder?” He shook his head. “Heck of a thing.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“We’re treating this investigation like a homicide. That’s why there’s a swarm of officers up here, taking fingerprints and photos, marking off anything that might be evidence.”

She looked through the windshield at the officers, all busy with different tasks. She imagined them upstairs in her bedroom, pawing through her drawers, looking over her personal things. “When can I get back into my house?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “Is there somebody you can stay with? You work for Hannah Lewis, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you can stay with Hannah. I’m sure she’s got an extra room.”

“I’ll be fine.” Brooke suddenly felt desperate to get away from all the flashing lights and crackling radios. “Is it all right if I leave now?”

“I’ll have one of my men bring your backpack. Is there anything else you want from the house?”

Everything. An outfit to wear tomorrow. A nightgown. My lotion. But she couldn’t stand the idea of strangers retrieving her belongings for her. “I’m okay.”

“I’ll need to get in touch with you tomorrow, Brooke.”

“It’s a work day.” During the many traumatic twists and turns that marked the long months of her separation from Thomas and her devastating divorce, she’d always found solace in returning to her job, in keeping busy. “I’ll be at the boutique.”

A few minutes later, she was behind the steering wheel of her car with her backpack on the passenger seat beside her. It took some maneuvering for all the police and emergency vehicles to clear a path, but she managed to get past them. She made the tight turn onto the snow-packed road that led down the side of the cliff.

She was glad to leave it all behind her, but she couldn’t relax. Her lungs were still clenched. Tension gripped the muscles in her back and neck.

The fear that she’d fought so hard to control returned to haunt her. She hated feeling like a coward—it made her feel weak and out of control.

Usually, the cool silence of the night would have soothed her. In the few months that she’d been in Colorado, she’d reveled in peaceful solitude.

But that was before danger had found her. The tension inside her built. Her gloved fingers tightened on the steering wheel. She couldn’t get the image of Sally out of her mind. “It’s wrong. So wrong,” she muttered.

She pulled up at the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. She needed to vent—to express her fear and, in so doing, loosen its hold.

Keeping her hands on the steering wheel, she yelled in protest. It was a battle cry—loud and guttural, wrenched from deep inside her. Then she yelled again. Screaming in the car was something that psychos did, but she had to let it out, had to find release in her fight against the invisible demon of fear. “I am a good person. I deserve a normal, quiet life. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”

The night answered her with overwhelming silence. For a moment, her fear seemed almost insignificant as she looked through the windshield at the massive mountains and the moonlight glistening on the snow. The pine trees watched like sentinels.

Her breath began to come more easily.

Turning left, she drove cautiously on the curving road that bordered Squirrel Creek as she considered the practical problem of where to stay tonight. During ski season, even the cheapest accommodations in Aspen were too expensive for her budget, and just about every place was fully booked anyway. She glanced down to check her gas gauge. She had enough to drive to Glenwood Springs, where it was likely she’d find an affordable place to stay.

She actually didn’t want to be in Aspen. The last thing she needed was to run into someone she knew—or worse, someone who knew Sally. Though Aspen was a worldclass resort, there was a small-town feeling among the local merchants, hotel staff and those who worked in the ski industry. Everybody was into everybody else’s business.

She turned left onto the shortcut to Glenwood, a twolane road with snow piled up on both sides. The clock on her dashboard showed that it was after ten o’clock. Most people were either home in bed or propped up on a bar stool in their favorite tavern.

Headlights in her rearview mirror caught her attention. They seemed to be approaching too fast. The bright high beams came closer. Like two shining eyes, glaring.

The muscles in her leg tightened as she pressed down on the accelerator. In seconds, the speedometer read fiftyfive, which wasn’t an unreasonable speed for this straight road across an open meadow—unless she hit an icy patch.

The vehicle behind her matched her pace, staying a few lengths behind. Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the road ahead. There were no houses close to the road. No ready escape.

Her usually reliable Jeep station wagon jostled and jolted. She felt a clunk. A fierce vibration rattled the frame.

A flat tire.

The steering wheel jerked in her hands. She had to slow down. There was no other choice.

She wanted to believe that the driver of that truck meant her no harm, that the hate-filled face she’d seen at the house was only an illusion, that Michael’s story about a serial killer was crazy.

But if she was wrong…she was a dead woman.