Читать книгу Cold Case Cowboy - Jenna Ryan - Страница 8

Chapter Two

“I think we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

In the Mountain House bar, Nick went over the grisly details. “The case has gone cold twice since the first murder eight years ago,” he said, “but back then the media dubbed the perpetrator the Snow Globe Killer because at each murder scene he left a snow globe with an angel inside.”

Sasha felt trapped and edgy, but refused to let either feeling show. “Dana said the police found nothing at the scene of Kristiana Felgard’s murder, so your theory already has a hole in it.”

A big one, she hoped. Because ever since Nick had appeared tonight, her stomach had been tied in knots.

Nick slid her a sideways look. “There was an imprint in the snow to the right of the victim’s head. That’s where the killer always placed his mementos. The impression is consistent with the bases of previous snow globes.”

She wanted to leave. More than that, she wanted Nick and Dana to stop looking at her as if she had a big red X on her chest.

She drew a deep, steadying breath, caught the smells of leather, whiskey and wood smoke from the bar’s enormous stone fireplace.

The room felt like an old saloon, warmed with polished oak tables and a mirrored bar that spanned the entire back wall.

Everything was gouged and timeworn and, given Skye Painter’s reputation, no doubt authentic, down to the glasses currently being placed in front of them by a rather baffled-looking server in high-heeled cowboy boots.

Sasha waited until she’d left and the drinks had been rearranged. “The waitress is a blonde. Why aren’t you terrifying her with your serial killer story?”

“Mandy’s color comes from a bottle.” Dana looked through the crowd to the entrance. “She’s a lovely woman, a grandmother of three whose husband passed away last month, which is why Skye hired her. Believe me, Mandy Cullen’s not our boy’s type.”

“No, according to Nick, your boy prefers women with Scandinavian ancestry.”

Nick eyes remained steady on hers. It was unnerving how he did that.

“He does, Sasha. In every case I’ve investigated I’ve found a Swedish or Finnish connection. And you already told us you’re Swedish.”

If she hadn’t been so freaked, she would have been tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

She’d come to Painter’s Bluff to design a resort and now she found herself the target of a serial killer. Or so the cop and mayor sharing the booth with her believed.

“My grandmother’s only half-Swedish, Nick. Her father came from Finland. He built ships in Sweden, but he was born in Helsinki.”

Nick’s eyes didn’t waver. “There you go then.”

Her hackles rose. “No, there I don’t go. You said it’s been five years since this guy’s murdered anyone.”

“That we know of.”

“But you would know, wouldn’t you? You’re a homicide cop.”

“I was a homicide cop. I work cold cases now. They’re my specialty. My partner and I have been working on this particular case for the past nine months. Six weeks ago, just after Thanksgiving, a woman was attacked in Aspen.”

“Attacked,” Sasha repeated. “Not killed?”

“She managed to get away, but she couldn’t tell us much. It was getting dark and her attacker was wearing a wool mask when he grabbed her. She’d been skiing all day and took the lift up to one of the more difficult slopes, hoping to squeeze in another run before meeting her friends for dinner. He skied right into her, then dragged her into the trees. She was disoriented, but not as badly as he believed. When he started to tie her up, she fought him.”

“And either pulled off his mask or scratched him. No description, so I’ll go with scratched.”

“Not bad, Detective Myer. Long story short, we were able to get his DNA from the blood and skin under her fingernails. We had a suspect in mind. Unfortunately, his DNA didn’t match. The investigation continued through Christmas, but for all intents and purposes, the case has gone cold again.”

Sasha felt as though she’d been thrown into a patch of quicksand, one that was sucking her in deeper and deeper. She spread the fingers of both hands on the table. “Okay, say Dana was right to call and tell you about Kristiana Felgard’s death. Here you are in Painter’s Bluff, a police officer from Denver who specializes in cold cases. Why on earth would the killer still be in town? I wouldn’t hang around, would you?”

“No, but then I’m not a killer.”

“Nick, he’d have to be crazy—No, scratch that, obviously he is crazy. He’d have to be stupid to remain at the scene of a murder that he must surely know is bound to attract even more police attention than usual.”

“Havoc,” Nick replied simply. “Some serial killers thrive on it. They get a rush from the act, then relive it through the media attention.”

“You said the murderer strangled Kristiana and left her naked inside a snow angel?” God, but that was a grisly image. “And he’s murdered seven other women the same way over the past eight years?”

Nick nodded, rolling the base of his beer glass on the table. “Two of the victims were discovered in Boise, one in a town outside Minneapolis, another in Otter Lake, Utah.”

“That’s only four.”

“It’s the first of two clusters. He murdered those four women eight years ago, then appeared to stop. Three years later, three more women died. The first was visiting her sister in Lake Tahoe, the second was skiing in Wyoming, the third was killed on the rim of Yellowstone Park. The woman in Aspen six weeks ago was extremely fortunate to escape.”

There were times, Sasha reflected, when an imagination could be a curse. She envisioned eight clones, lying naked in snow angels, with the wind blowing their hair over their faces and their eyes wide open and staring. She could even picture the angel snow globes, like the one her uncle Paul displayed on his console table every Christmas.

Across the bar table, Dana drummed his fingers on the scarred wood. “I told Will Pyle to meet us here at seven o’clock. It’s eight now. Where is he?”

Sasha didn’t know or care. If there was one person she had no desire to meet it was the sheriff. She was having a difficult enough time dealing with the men beside her.

“Maybe the Sickerbies ran him off the road,” she suggested.

“Or hit the liquor store again,” Nick murmured.

Dana rubbed his temples. “Thanks for that, Nick. The Sickerbies into theft. God help us if that’s true.”

Sensing an opportunity to change the subject, Sasha asked, “Were you a local boy once, Nick?”

“In a way. I grew up in Outlaw Falls, about a hundred miles from here. Dana and I went to grade school together. His family moved away before we started high school, but we managed to stay in touch.”

Dana continued to massage his temples. “We made a point of going fishing every summer at Sun Lake—that’s near Outlaw Falls—but the fish got scarce and the licensing laws changed. Now we hike up Hollowback and do the camping thing. My five-year-old’s already pestering me to take him along next summer. Fawn would love it. Fawn’s my wife,” he added. “We’re celebrating our fourteenth—” His pager went off, and he unhooked it from his belt. “And even as we speak, she wants me.” Taking a quick sip of beer, he slid from the booth. “My cell phone’s dead. Gotta use a pay phone.”

“My cell’s charged,” Sasha said, but Dana waved her off.

“I want to call Will, too. Besides, it’s quieter in the lobby.” He stabbed a finger at Nick. “Tell her about Kristiana Felgard’s features.”

“No, don’t tell her,” Sasha said when he was gone. “She has a pretty good idea already. Tell me about camping on Hollowback Mountain.”

Nick shrugged. “Hundreds of urbanites do it every summer, which is probably why Skye Painter wants to build a resort.”

Sasha smiled. “You don’t like cities, do you, Nick?

“I don’t mind them.”

Humor nudged aside fear. “My, but you are an enigma.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “Not so much. I work in the city but grew up on a ranch. I like to hike up mountains in the summer, fish when I can. Doesn’t seem overly enigmatic to me.”

“I sense a strong desire for solitude.”

The dimple in his cheek deepened. “Point taken. Rocks and trees don’t ask questions.”

“Or commit crimes.” She regarded him in profile, noticed the length of his lashes and the way his hair curled over his shirt. “Are you married?”

The vague smile held. “Not anymore. You?”

“Almost. I did the runaway bride thing, except I was more civilized and left him in his living room rather than at the altar. Do you have a partner?” Amused by the way his eyes narrowed, she clarified, “I mean a police partner.” Then she raised her brows. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t like questions, do you? But I’m not a rock or a tree. You and Dana want to pry into my background, I’m going to pry into yours. Fair’s fair, Detective Law.”

“I ask questions for a reason, Sasha.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t want to talk about Kristiana Felgard. Why not?”

“For the same reason I don’t walk behind horses. If you were me, would you want to spend your first evening in a strange town talking about a dead woman?”

“I would if her death might pertain to me.”

“Guess that makes me totally perverse then. Or maybe I just find it a little spooky that a lunatic killer who couldn’t possibly know I was coming to Painter’s Bluff might want me dead.”

She saw Nick’s lips curve as he watched a group of rowdies at the bar. “Are you trying to goad me, Sasha?” he asked.

Her own smile blossomed. “Maybe a little. If I am, I come by the trait honestly. I also know a loner when I meet one. And I’m truly curious about why a person like you would want to separate himself from the rest of the world.”

“News flash, loners don’t all live in caves.”

“Or even close to it in your case. Why Denver?”

“Why not?”

“Okay, let’s go back further. Why a cop?”

He tipped his face to the ceiling. “You are perverse, aren’t you? And persistent. There’s no deep mystery. I’m a kid from Colorado who watched TV and fell in love with the idea of becoming a cop. The kid grew up, moved to Chicago, learned the difference between reality and fantasy and slowly made his way back to the mountains.”

She watched the play of expressions in his eyes when he turned them toward her. They truly were amazing.

“That’s a very succinct story, Nick, but it’s not an answer. Why a cold case cop?”

“Why an architect?”

She regarded him for a moment, then sighed. “My mother wanted me to design clothes.”

With the glass raised to his lips, he chuckled. “That wasn’t succinct—it was downright confusing.”

“Not if you knew my mother. And our relationship.” She watched Mandy the waitress spill a shot glass of whiskey onto the bar, and relented. “Okay, give, why do you think the man who killed Kristiana Felgard will come after me?”

“I didn’t say he would. I said he might.”

“Subtle difference. Come on, Nick, I don’t even live here. And not that I want any woman to be killed, but in a town of three thousand residents, there must be one or two blond females with Scandinavian backgrounds.”

“The sheriff and his deputies are looking into that.”

“So you’re what? Here in an official capacity, or merely as an interested Denver cop?”

He reached for and captured her right hand. Stroking the back of her fingers with his thumb, he said, “Dana contacted me early this morning. I’m official.” He regarded her through his lashes. “Stories about this serial killer were all over the newspapers eight and five years ago. How is it you never read any of them?”

Tiny threads of electricity raced up her arm. Sasha considered removing her hand from his, but for the moment the sensation fascinated more than it unnerved her.

“Eight years ago, I lived in Atlanta, and Philadelphia after that. The East Coast has murders of its own, serial and otherwise. I moved back to Denver three years ago when two of my Atlanta associates decided to make a lifestyle change and thought I might like to do the same.”

“So you’ve lived in Denver before.” When his thumb grazed her knuckles and made her shiver, she knew she really should pull away. That she didn’t both surprised and intrigued her.

“I was born in Denver. I lived there until my parents divorced and my mother took me to New York. She remarried, divorced again. We moved to Miami. By then I had a brother. Another marriage, another divorce, on to New Haven. Then it was London for a while and Paris, but it was difficult in France. She couldn’t speak the language, and I refused to take the modeling course she enrolled me in. It didn’t matter. Her relationship there failed as miserably as her previous marriages. We went to Stockholm, stayed with my grandmother for a year. I finished high school and moved to Boston to study architecture. That’s where my mother lives now.”

It was more than she usually told people. Unsure why she’d become so garrulous, Sasha gave her fingers a subtle tug. He released her hand but continued to regard her in an assessing way.

“Did you enjoy living in all those places?”

“I liked the people. I make friends easily, so the moving part wasn’t a problem. And who wouldn’t love New York, London and Paris?” From an adjacent booth she heard Mandy laugh as she served her customers, and once again, the image of eight murdered women flitted into Sasha’s mind’s eye. Vexed by her lack of mental control, she released a breath. “Do you have any idea why he killed her?”

Nick had no trouble following her change of subject. “All we’ve got so far is the obvious physical connection to his previous victims.”

Sasha’s head spun. Facts and fears overlapped. “I’m sorry, did you say Kristiana Felgard was local?”

Nick’s expression gentled. “She was a tourist, Sasha. April said she checked into the hotel late yesterday afternoon. She spoke limited English and was very polite.”

Sasha rolled that over in her mind. “Why do you think she came to Painter’s Bluff?”

“She could have been a heli-skier. It’s a big sport here. She had a helmet and goggles in her suitcase. There’s also the ice sculpture festival that takes place at the end of January. Participants are beginning to arrive for that.”

“So you think what? That the killer followed her to Painter’s Bluff?”

“Or knew her itinerary and arrived ahead of her.”

“Are you saying he stalks his victims?”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“Lovely.” Sasha sank back into her seat. “That means he could know my schedule as well.”

“It’s possible.”

“I wasn’t serious, Nick. I thought you just said this guy wasn’t necessarily after me.”

“I’m not saying he’s been stalking you specifically, Sasha, merely that you fit the profile. If he sees you, you could be at risk. The proverbial two birds with one stone.”

Her laugh contained no humor. “Two women with Swedish backgrounds travel to Painter’s Bluff at the same time. Your nut gets an unexpected twofer, and you get a golden opportunity to catch him.” She watched his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me, Detective?”

He regarded her for a long moment. “Kristiana didn’t have a reservation.”

“Well, that’s… Hmm.”

“Yeah, very hmm.”

Mandy wobbled past in her cowboy boots. She had four steak dinners precariously balanced on her arms.

Before she could evade him, Nick recaptured Sasha’s hand. “Are you hungry?”

For him, she thought suddenly, as electric shivers raced up her arm. “I am, actually. I missed lunch.”

“Then we’ll order. While we eat, you can tell me about your life in Denver and why a beautiful woman like you would prefer to design buildings over clothes.”

Feeling suddenly reckless, Sasha leaned closer to him on the leather seat. “It’s a deal. And afterward, you can tell me why a gorgeous cop like you chose to devote himself to solving cold cases.” Giving in to desire, she brushed her lips temptingly over his. “You can also tell me what kind of a snowball’s chance in hell you think you have of talking me into leaving Painter’s Bluff.”

“S’CUSE ME, ma’am.”

A man bumped Sasha’s elbow as he passed her in the second floor corridor. She recognized the stained cowboy hat and charcoal-gray parka, but beyond that didn’t take much notice of him.

She couldn’t believe it was only ten o’clock. So much had happened since she’d arrived in town, it felt like 3:00 a.m.

Nick Law, a cop who specialized in cold cases, believed that a serial killer was going to target her as his next victim. Hows and whys aside, the fact remained that someone had killed a woman last night. A woman with features similar to her own. A woman, like her, of Swedish descent. He’d left her naked in the snow, inside a snow angel. He’d strangled her. Had he also raped her? Nick hadn’t mentioned that, and Sasha hadn’t asked. She really didn’t want to picture it.

So far, the local newspaper was reporting a death with no reference to a serial killer. There’d been no snow globe left at the scene, or if there had been someone had removed it.

Why?

Nick hadn’t been able to answer that question. The sheriff hadn’t showed, and Dana had gone home after his wife paged him. He’d murmured something about in-laws wanting him to put his computer skills back to work and join them in Silicon Valley.

Alone with Nick after that, Sasha had kissed him.

Why had she done that? She wasn’t Barbara—please, God, not even close. And while Sasha did flirt with men sometimes, she seldom went so far as to touch them. She’d meant to tease Nick, she knew that. What she hadn’t intended to do was enjoy herself.

Nick had given her very little by way of a reaction. Whether he’d liked the kiss or not, she couldn’t tell, though he had stared at her for some time afterward.

A reluctant smile quirked Sasha’s lips. Perversity, it seemed, ran rampant in her family.

She heard footsteps to her left, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Evening, Mr. Rush.” April, the redhead from the front desk, flashed a high-voltage smile at the man in the stained hat as he stood outside room 23. “Truck still not fixed?”

The man fumbled with his key. “Maybe tomorrow.” He jammed it hard into the lock, glanced in Sasha’s direction and nodded. “’Night, ladies.”

April patted her heart. Her voice dropped as she approached. “He’s so Gary Cooper.”

Sasha had to force her own key into the very old lock. “All I saw was a hat, facial stubble and a sheepskin collar.”

April paused for a chat. “This is his third night here. Not on purpose, mind you. His truck crapped out on him two miles south of town. How are you for towels?”

“I’m good. Listen, if Max Macallum’s looking for me, tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow, okay?”

“Got it.” When the door to room 23 gave a faint creak, April hitched up her breasts and offered a sugary, “Sleep well, Mr. Rush.” To Sasha, she whispered, “Think I’ll rent High Noon tonight.”

“Right now I couldn’t stay awake through the opening credits.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Once, when I was five.”

April gestured at Sasha’s hair. “You should watch it again. You’re totally Kellyesque.”

“Sorry?”

“Rent the movie. Gary Cooper, Grace Kelly. You’ll get it. You’re beautiful in a Princess of Monaco way. Not the type we usually see here in Painter’s Bluff.”

“I heard Skye Painter was a bombshell in her time.”

“So they say. At this point, she’s more of a character.” April patted Sasha’s arm. “You look done in, hon. Get some shut-eye. Tomorrow should be a decent day, although forecasters are talking blizzard by nightfall. Sleep well.”

“I’ll do my best.”

As she started across the threshold, Sasha thought she heard a sound like a raspy breath. When the door to room 23 clicked shut, the sound stopped.

“Weird,” she murmured. And made a point of bolting her own door behind her.

HE LOCKED himself in, hid away. No prying eyes could find him here. Trembling all over, he pressed his forehead against the door.

He couldn’t deny it anymore. The monster that had lived inside him for so many years was back. It had grown into a vicious, spiky-tailed demon. Sometimes it vanished like smoke. Other times it snarled and scratched and whipped its tail around until he had to let it out.

It crawled to the surface, so close he could feel its heart beating against his ribs, feel its hot, greedy breath on his skin. He pictured her face, heard her voice. Tossing his head back, he breathed out the hatred through his nostrils.

He’d killed her many times already, but somehow she always came back. He needed to kill her again, do it properly this time. Then, finally, his pain might end.

He visualized the beautiful blonde, imagined her preparing to climb into her soft hotel bed. Removing her clothing, piece by piece. Removing her false halo and wings, perhaps for the last time.

He raised his forehead from the door. And heard the monster chuckle.