Читать книгу Christmas Crime in Colorado - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 9

With Brooke asleep in the bedroom in his hotel suite, Michael poured himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon and added ice—a sin to purists, but he liked his liquor cold.

After Grant’s murder, he’d gotten into the habit of having a drink every night before he went to bed in the hope that he wouldn’t lie awake, unable to shut off his mind. The fact that Grant’s killer hadn’t been brought to justice tore him up inside.

For ten years, Michael had been chasing down leads and solving crimes, but his experience as a cop was no help at all when it came to dealing with Grant’s murder. He raised his glass to the memory of his friend. Here’s to a fallen comrade. A good man, a good soldier, a good friend. Semper Fi.

The bourbon rolled across his tongue, leaving a mellow aftertaste. The hotel’s concierge had stocked the kitchenette with the things he’d requested: milk, fruit and bourbon. Two healthy items out of three wasn’t bad.

The hotel was turning out to be more than adequate. The spacious living room with a view of the ski slope had a kitchenette and a small bathroom of its own. In spite of the earthy Southwestern colors, the rustic furniture reminded him of his uncle Elmo’s hunting lodge. Although the hunting lodge had just about as much class as a rusted tin can.

He listened but heard no sound from the bedroom. Within minutes after Brooke said good-night and closed the bedroom door, he heard her running the shower in the bathroom. If his prior experience with victims held true, he figured she’d be scrubbing herself clean, trying to wash away the memory of violence.

But was she a victim? He gave serious consideration to the possibility that Brooke might have killed her roommate. It seemed unlikely that Brooke had the necessary physical strength to haul Sally through the house and fling her over the balcony. Also, when he arrived on the scene, Brooke’s desperation was real—she wanted to help Sally, to save her.

Nope, Brooke wasn’t a killer.

He had the sense that she was stressed to her breaking point, though. It seemed that her life had been a rough ride, and one more bump in the road—finding her roommate dead—could send her over the edge. Sally’s death wasn’t just a bump in the road—it was more like getting mowed down by a trauma the size of a semi-truck.

Crossing the room, he turned on the gas fireplace and sat on the sofa. His laptop rested on the coffee table in front of him. Time to review his research on the lady who had taken over his bedroom. Thirty-two years old. No arrests. No criminal record. She’d been secretary of the Atlanta Junior League. Active in charity events, her picture popped up on the society page. The black-and-white photo showed a slender, unsmiling woman standing beside an athleticlooking guy in a tux. Her husband, Thomas. She’d taken out a restraining order on him and filed two police reports claiming that he’d harassed her. After a prolonged separation and court battle, their divorce was final four months ago. She’d left town almost immediately afterward.

What made this lady tick? She’d readily admitted that she sometimes saw things that weren’t there but wasn’t currently on medications. Very likely she’d been seeing a therapist. It sure would be handy to talk to that counselor, but psychiatrists wouldn’t talk without a warrant—and sometimes not even then.

First thing tomorrow, he’d put in a call to a friend in the Atlanta police department and see if he could unearth any pertinent information on Brooke Johnson.

Stripped down to his shorts, he pulled the sofa into a bed and got between the sheets. He closed his eyes and relaxed into unconsciousness.

HIS DREAM state didn’t last all night. A sound from behind the bedroom door pulled him awake. Immediately, he was out of bed and on his feet. The digital clock in the kitchen showed the time: it was 1:07 a.m. Poised for action, he listened hard. The sound came again—a small whimper. He wasn’t surprised that this subtle noise woke him. Ever since serving in a combat zone, he’d been a light sleeper.

What was going on in that bedroom? It didn’t seem possible that an intruder had broken in. They were on the third floor, and there was no access through the windows. All the same, he needed to check on Brooke’s safety.

Gun in hand, he eased the bedroom door open. Moonlight poured through the window.

He saw her curled up in a tight ball with the covers thrown aside. Her shoulders trembled, and he realized that she had made the noise. It was a quiet sob that tore at his heart. She uncoiled and rolled over, her head thrashing back and forth in denial. Her eyes were closed—she was still asleep and dreaming of her own private sorrows.

He approached the bed and placed his gun on the nightstand. Standing over her, he couldn’t help but admire her long, slender legs and slim torso. Her dark red hair—the rich color of cherry wood—tangled around her face. Her full lips moved, but no words came out.

Careful not to disturb her, he pulled the comforter back over her. Very gently, he smoothed the hair off her face.

A long, low groan pushed through her lips. She seemed to relax; her breath came more easily. In the moonlight, her skin was luminescent. Her delicate features shone with a natural beauty that was a wonder to behold.

But he couldn’t allow himself to be attracted to her. He hadn’t come all the way across the country to find a lover. Taking his gun from the table, he left her bedroom and returned to the sofa bed.

Less than an hour later, she cried out again. This time, it was a loud shout.

Michael bolted from sleep and ran to her bedroom. He found her cowering in the corner beside the open drapes, as if she was trying to protect herself from a beating.

When she saw him, she stood up straight. Her body was stiff; tension radiated from every pore. In a shaky voice, she asked, “Where am I?”

“In a hotel in Aspen.”

His words seemed to confuse her. She shook her head. Her hands clenched into two fists, and she raised them to her mouth. “Who are you?”

“Michael Shaw,” he said as gently as possible. “I’m not going to hurt you, Brooke.”

Her gaze focused on the gun he held in his hand. “Leave me alone. Please. Please.”

“You’re safe, Brooke.” He set the gun down on the dresser. “I’m here to protect you. You can go back to bed. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

Stiffly, she edged along the wall until she reached the bed. Her movements were clumsy as she got under the covers. “You can go. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Go,” she said. “Please. Go away.”

He wasn’t sure that she was awake. Not fully conscious, anyway. Caught up in her nightmare, she’d lost track of the present, hurtling backward in time to relive a bad experience. Her behavior reminded him of combat veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Though she hadn’t been to war, some parts of her life must have felt like a battlefield. That ex-husband of hers had really done a number on her.

THE NEXT morning, Brooke sat across the table from Michael, eating the breakfast he’d ordered from room service. Waffles for him. Eggs Benedict for her. She’d already taken a shower and washed her hair. All in all, she felt okay in spite of her nightmares and the nagging half memory that she’d done something embarrassing last night, like sleepwalking.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and added her usual three packets of sugar. Her own version of extra sweet tasted better to her than any of the fancy concoctions from the coffee specialty shops.

Her first bite of egg was excellent. The second even better. She dug in, glad to be hungry. She’d need all her strength to get through today.

“I usually don’t eat so much breakfast,” she said.

“My aunt Hester used to say it was the most important meal of the day.”

“Aunt Hester, huh? She sounds like something out of an antebellum novel.”

“She was real. A true Southern belle.”

His voice struck exactly the right tone of friendliness, but there was something in his eyes that worried her. He seemed to be taking her measure, deciding how he ought to handle her.

And she was also wary—unsure if she wanted his help but afraid to be on her own. If there truly was a serial killer after her, she could do a lot worse than having this handsome cop from Birmingham as a protector.

“I want to thank you,” she said, “for letting me stay here last night.”

“No problem.” He took a huge bite of waffle, drizzled with syrup and butter. “I’m glad you didn’t have to drive all the way across the mountain to Glenwood Springs.”

“So am I.”

Her decision to drive toward Glenwood Springs hadn’t been entirely logical, but she had wanted to put distance between herself and the place where Sally died. Her instinct had been to run—to escape the inevitable gossip and avoid the questions.

She knew what it was like to be at the center of a terrible situation. When her marriage exploded, she’d faced constant, cruel, judgmental scrutiny. Though Atlanta ranked as one of the largest cities in the South, her shame made the streets shrink to a microcosm. Everywhere she went—to her job, to the grocery store, to the gym—she encountered people who knew her and Thomas. Some looked upon her with pity. Others regarded her with disgust, unable to understand how she could leave her very influential, very handsome husband. How dare she take out a restraining order against him? Clearly she was a crazy, ungrateful witch.

They couldn’t know what happened inside their marriage, and she was too proud to tell the truth. No woman wants to admit that she allowed herself to be trapped in an abusive relationship. She should have left Thomas much sooner than she did.

She attacked her eggs with renewed vigor.

“You’ll be staying here again tonight,” he said.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure the police will be done with my house.”

“Even so, you’ll need to have the locks changed. And I’ll be hiring a cleaning service to put things back in order.”

He was right about the locks. “I can’t let you pay for a cleaning service. After I get my car fixed, I can—”

“Already taken care of,” he said. “I made a phone call last night. Your tire is repaired, and your car is parked in the hotel garage.”

She should have been grateful, but there was something unnerving about having him step in and run her life. She needed to set some boundaries. Laying her fork down on her plate, she confronted him directly. “I insist on paying for the repair. How much do I owe you?”

“Money isn’t a problem.”

It hadn’t escaped her notice that this was a very deluxe suite in a hotel that wasn’t cheap. The classic Southwestern style was gorgeous. And the master bathroom had a Jacuzzi, polished granite countertops and pewter fixtures. From the little she knew about his background, she didn’t expect him to be wealthy. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

He looked up from the waffle, which was rapidly disappearing. “Why what?”

“Why isn’t money a problem?”

Avoiding her gaze, he refilled his coffee cup. No sugar for him. “Family inheritance.”

His terse response made her think he was uncomfortable talking about himself. His reticence made her even more curious, of course. “When I think of Birmingham, I think steel. Was that the business your family was in?”

“Steel and manufacturing. Then we moved into farming. My sister runs the business, and she’s branched into biotech research, which has turned out to be profitable and just might save the world.”

“And you have a share in this family business?”

“I’m on the board of directors.”

That explained why he had money but said very little about Michael himself. “You could have been a gentleman farmer, but you went into the Marines?”

“Signing up for military service is something that every male in the Shaw family has done for generations. It’s tradition.”

“Afterward, why did you become a cop?”

He sipped his coffee and shrugged his broad shoulders. The forest green of his crewneck sweater almost matched the color of his eyes. “My sister and my mama have asked me that very question about ten million times. I don’t have a real good answer.”

“I’d like to know,” she said. “Since we’re going to be spending some time together, it would help if I understood a little bit about you.”

“Same here.” He leaned forward. “I’d like to know about you, Brooke.”

Exploring her past was a perilous journey, but she had plenty of practice in saying just enough. “You first. Why are you a cop?”

“My time in the Marines got cut short. I was given a medical discharge after I had a pretty severe head injury. I was in a coma for a week. It happened in the same incident that cost Grant Rawlins his leg.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Mostly. I have occasional vertigo.”

To her eyes, he appeared to be in peak physical condition. She had a sudden image of Michael wearing only black boxer shorts. She saw sinewy arms, muscular thighs and a gun in his hand. She blinked to erase that thought, concentrating one hundred percent on the remains of her breakfast. “Please continue.”

“When I left the Corps, it didn’t seem like I’d completed my mission. In war zones, I saw a lot of injustice. Cruelty. Pain. I’ll spare you the details.”

Though his expression didn’t change, she sensed his tension as he continued. “I was left with the feeling that I needed to do what I could to make things right. Being a cop seemed like a good fit. To serve and protect.”

His sincerity and idealism lifted him in her estimation. He was a rich man who could have coasted through life. Instead, he truly wanted to help others. “That’s very impressive.”

“Now it’s my turn,” he said. “I have a few questions for you, starting with—”

“Wait.” She glanced at her clock. “I’m afraid that discussion will have to wait. I’m supposed to open the shop today, and I need to be there by nine thirty.”

“You’re putting me off,” he said. It was a statement, not a question; clearly he recognized her avoidance tactic. “If you don’t tell me about yourself, I’ll have to rely on what other people say about you.”

What other people? She brushed his comment away. “We’ll talk about me later. I promise.”

“That’s fine,” he said in an exaggerated drawl that made two words sound like ten. “Before we leave this room, we need to lay down some ground rules.”

She didn’t like the sound of this. “Such as?”

“Until I learn otherwise, I’m going to assume that you’re in danger. Don’t go anywhere by yourself.”

“What about work?”

“I’ll go with you to the shop.You can open up. Then you can call somebody to fill in for you.” He finished off the last bite of waffle and dropped his napkin on the plate. “I’m sure your employer will understand if you take a couple days off.”

That was very likely true. Hannah Lewis was an understanding boss. But Brooke preferred working. The best way to handle a crisis was to keep busy. “I’ll be safe at the boutique. Nobody is going to attack me with other people standing around.”

“I was in your little shop yesterday,” he reminded her. “It’s not exactly a hotbed of activity.”

“Yesterday was the Tuesday after Thanksgiving weekend. Of course, it was slow.”

“And today?”

“I’m pretty sure there will be a crowd,” she said. “Everybody is going to be stopping by, wanting to know the details about Sally’s death. Aspen isn’t Birmingham. This is a small community. People will be curious.”

“Nonetheless, you need to make arrangements for later this morning,” he said. “At eleven o’clock, you need to report to McGraw’s office. I’ll be there, too. I have an appointment to talk to the feds.”

“The FBI?” Though she wanted to deny that she was the next target of a serial killer, a shiver trickled down her spine.

He crossed the room to the coffee table and picked up his laptop. After punching a few keys, he turned the screen toward her. “This is Robby Lee Warren’s oldest brother. His name is Stonewall Jackson Warren. He goes by Jackson.”

“Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson?”

“The other brothers are Jefferson Davis and John Morgan. All generals in the Confederate Army.”

“Should I be asking if all your relatives who enlisted were fighting for the South?”

“Probably not,” he said.

She looked at the screen. Though Stonewall Jackson Warren was smiling in the picture, he had a piercing stare. His eyebrows arched like wings over his brown eyes. He had dark hair, a long face and prominent cheekbones. “He’s not bad looking.”

“Con men usually aren’t,” Michael said. “Jackson Warren has a history of running scams and pulling off minor frauds. He’s been arrested twice but never been brought to trial.”