Читать книгу Protective Duty - Jessica R. Patch - Страница 11

TWO

Sleep hadn’t come for Bryn. For those first few moments in the park, she wasn’t sure if she was going to live or die. This was the very reason SAC Towerman had requested she see the bureau therapist. She hadn’t had time to see one in Ohio because of the quick transfer after her surgery and recovery from the gunshot wound.

But she’d fought last night in the park. Just like in Ohio. And she’d survived.

Only because Eric had shown up. What if he hadn’t? She had to believe that she’d have retrieved her complete mental faculties and escaped, taking the attacker down. However, it hadn’t stopped every crack and pop in her house from keeping her wide-awake, adrenaline racing until she broke out into a sweat.

The only thing comforting about the night at all was cuddling with her golden retriever pup. She’d stopped by Sport’s Authority to purchase a new bathing suit after joining a nearby gym with a pool, and she hadn’t been able to resist the puppy. The pet adoption agency had set up in the parking lot, and this fluffy, blond pup had barked his way into her heart.

After consuming half a pot of coffee and walking her new little love, she’d come on in to set up a major case room. Table. Whiteboard. Space to tack maps and charts to the wall. Whatever was necessary to track down this monster, and a monster he was. Bryn had pored over the case files Eric had sent in the middle of the night. Didn’t appear his sleeping habits had changed over time. When they’d been a couple, some nights he’d call her as late as two in the morning. Just awake and bored. Although he’d said it was simply because he’d missed her voice, even if they’d been apart for less than three hours, and it had melted her every single time.

Enough trailing down a path of wilted and dried-up rose-petal memories. Back to the case at hand. Bryn sipped her lukewarm coffee and checked her watch—almost 8:00 a.m. In the past five months, four women had been drowned and left in a public park. Bryn had connected the same few dots Eric had. While the women shared similar features, such as thin noses and lips, blond hair and blue eyes, they didn’t fit age-wise. The youngest victim was midthirties while the oldest and most recent victim—Bridgette Danforth—had been forty-six. Two were married. Two were divorced. The divorced women had no children. The married women did.

Last night’s victim had left her car in the parking lot at the station after the morning taping. Like the other victims, she had seemed to walk away with the killer without a single person noticing. Vanished. Question was, did they know their killer or was he simply a charming man and able to catch his prey off guard, using something to draw their compassion, all the while luring each one into a trap?

The guy who had attacked her held zero charm.

Bryn tapped her pen on the desk and stared at the victim photos she’d tacked to the board. She’d drawn a line to the connections they had, but not a single line joined all four women. What had Eric missed? What was she missing?

“I come bearing coffee.” Eric swung into the case room with two cups in hand. So much better than the burned brew she’d been slurping from the bureau pot. He sat it on the conference table near her, his scent revealing a fresh shower and a man who knew how to wear cologne—the expensive kind. But then he had money. A lot of it. Trust-fund cop. Her pulse betrayed her and rode off at a steady gallop. She refused to admire his full lips—extremely kissable lips, surrounded by scruff that concealed two deep-set dimples.

“Thanks.” She worked to appear professional, to mask the way his presence did a number on her stomach. Last night, when he’d brushed her cheek and showed concern, it had brought up so many things about him she once loved, including their shared faith. Now hers was shaky at best. Had Eric lost his after what happened to his sister? She wouldn’t fault him for it.

This morning, she had to shove the emotions that surfaced back down where they belonged. She didn’t have the heart to get rid of them entirely.

He surveyed the room. “You’ve been busy.”

She sipped the fresh coffee, set it aside and eyed him. “You, too. After tailing me home and sitting outside for an hour, you must have been up half the night sending the files over. But you’ve showered, so I thank you.” She mimicked his raised eyebrows. She’d had half a mind to march out there and blow a gasket on him, but civility won out and a tiny sliver of her had been grateful. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”

“Technically...” He cocked his head and grinned.

Bryn held back an eye roll and opened Bridgette Danforth’s case file. “We’re missing a connection between the victims. I want to go back over the investigation with a fine-tooth comb. Talk to friends and family.”

Eric opened his mouth, no doubt to erupt in protest, but Bryn held her hand up. “I trust your work. But I need to step into their lives. I need them to put me in his head. This is how I do my job.” Not her favorite part—stepping into a killer’s mind—but necessary.

His protest petered out, and his eyes softened. He had the best eyes with long, thick lashes. “I heard through the grapevine you’ve been very successful. And for being so young.”

Young. Old. It was about determination and perseverance. Passion and motivation. She wanted justice for these victims. For all the victims she championed. She’d always been intrigued by Eric’s job as a police officer and Holt’s DEA work. But death and evil hadn’t been real for her. It was something that happened to other people. Until it raised its ugly head in her own home. She’d been almost twenty-one.

“Just so you know, I’ve heard good things about you and your work. Me being here isn’t about you not being capable.”

His eyebrows flashed upward. No, to him it probably felt like a punch to the groin.

“I didn’t ask to take over. Okay?”

If Abby hadn’t died, they’d likely be married. But then she may not have followed the career path she was on now, and she was supposed to be burying old emotions.

“Okay.” Eric cleared his throat. “You really like this job, don’t you?”

“I like putting a dent in evil’s fender.” She rubbed her clammy hands on her pants. “I... I had to do something. I couldn’t just hop in a pool and pretend if I kept swimming laps what happened to your family, to mine, wouldn’t exist.”

“So you moved to Ohio with your parents?”

“After Rand’s trial. Yes. We all needed...new.” And yet she was back. For another fresh start.

Eric popped the lid off his coffee cup and sipped. “Why did you come back to Memphis?”

She hadn’t answered him last night. Wasn’t sure she had the answer. And him asking had hurt. Was he sorry she’d come back? How could a place with so many horrifying memories also provide her with some comfort? Familiarity? Or because her best memories—many of them involving Eric—were in Memphis? “Point is I’m here. And we have a job to do. Can we try to set aside the pain and our past? At least to get through this case?” She’d crumble if she didn’t build a wall.

Eric’s nostrils flared, and he flexed his right hand—a hand that used to stroke her cheek often or meld with her own, fingers laced together. “Compartmentalize. I’m good at that.”

Didn’t she know it, and he generally used humor to do it. “Okay, I can read the files all day long, but I want to hear about the investigation from you. By the way—” she stole another sip of her brew “—your handwriting is atrocious.”

Eric walked to the board. “We got a call on our first victim on a Friday morning back in the beginning of May. Female in a park in Collierville. Thirty-eight. Hair and clothing damp. Turned out to be a professor at Rhodes. Cat Weaver. Married. Daughter in high school.”

“Taught sociology.”

Eric nodded. “No assault. Just drowning. No drugs in her system, but then we didn’t know of anything specific to check. Stomach contents showed it was regular ol’ city water she drowned in. Same with the other two and I’ll guess same with our newest victim, Bridgette Danforth.”

Bryn flipped through reports. “Victim two was found in early July. Victim three in early September, but he broke pattern by striking again now in October instead of next month.” Something must have triggered the escalation, giving Towerman and the mayor reason to pull her in so quickly.

The killer’s pattern had changed now, making him unpredictable.

“Wish we knew why. There’s nothing to indicate they’d been bound. Just walked off willingly with this guy. All cars abandoned, like Bridgette’s. We snooped on the husbands and the exes. Didn’t find anything. Alibis checked out.”

Would any of them have gone willingly with the guy that had assaulted Bryn in the park? Which reminded her. “I drew that tribal tattoo. Had one of our analysts run tattoo recognition software through NCIC and the Department of Homeland Security. Maybe we’ll get a match. But I made a copy in case you might have seen it or heard about it when interviewing family and friends.”

She showed him the picture and he shook his head. “No, nothing ever mentioned about a tattoo. Man, I’d love a break in this case. Been praying and trusting God every day for one.”

Looked as if Eric’s faith hadn’t been destroyed. She almost asked him how he’d stayed strong. Instead she focused on the case and stared at victim number two’s photo. “Tell me more about her.”

Eric pointed to her photo on the board. “Kendra Kennick. She worked for a PR firm. Tulley & Comer. They handle everything from campaigns to scandals. She had a few angry letters.”

“I read them. Nothing I’d red flag. Steam blowing mostly.”

“Still, I chased those leads.”

“And?” Bryn cocked an eyebrow.

“Steam blowing.” Eric smirked. “She left behind a husband and two children. Eight and five. The mayor jumped in at that point. Family friend. Kendra helped him with his last mayoral campaign.”

“Hmm. Was the mayor at Rhodes’s fund-raising gala? The one our sociology professor vanished from?”

Eric tipped his head. “He’s a piece of work, but I’m not sure he’s a serial killer.”

Bryn shrugged. “Was he there?”

Eric’s neck flushed. “I never checked.”

“Check. Can we link him to the other two victims?” Bryn wasn’t ruling him out. Darkness often masqueraded as light.

“He knows Bridgette Danforth. He’s been a guest on Wake-Up Memphis.”

Bryn stood and crossed to the board. “And what about victim three, Annalise Hemingway? Can we connect them?”

Eric inhaled. Exhaled. “I wouldn’t think directly. She’s a divorce attorney and he’s still with his wife—”

“But he kept Kendra Kennick, the PR specialist, on retainer. What if she wasn’t only helping him with his campaign? What if he had marital issues? Maybe his wife gave Annalise a visit. She does specialize in high-profile divorces. Maybe the threat of Annalise scared him faithful...or more discreet.” She only represented wives, which was also interesting. “How long was Annalise divorced? Ten years?”

“Yes. From Alan Markston. He’s remarried to a girl fresh out of private-school-plaid skirts and oxford shoes. Like I said, alibi checked out. But I got a gut feeling he was a real tool.”

“Lovely.” Bryn would like to pay him a visit. “I guess it’d be a dumb question to ask if she had enemies.”

“She was the go-to attorney if you wanted to squeeze blood from a turnip out of your not-so-better half.” Eric reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a package of Twizzlers. “You want?” He held one out.

Bryn heaved a sigh. “Strawberry?”

“Is there any other flavor?” An incredible, lady-killer grin filled his face.

“Cherry for one.” She held her hand up and passed on the chewy strip of licorice.

“Ones that count.” He popped the edge in his mouth like a cigarette and stared at the board. Sweet strawberry flavor wafted into her nostrils.

“Let’s swing by and chat with Bridgette’s ex-husband and then hit the station and talk to her coworkers. See if we can figure out where she was the night before. Tomorrow or later tonight I can interview past victims’ family and friends. And we’ll need to cover her condo.”

“I already had her cell phone sent in to one of your analysts. They’re pulling calls and texts. Her purse and contents are in Evidence.”

“If her purse was in her car, then she was likely taken from the station. Security footage?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. None.”

“Thanks. For...being so cooperative. I appreciate it.” She tried not to get too lost in those brown eyes.

Eric shifted a shoulder up, chewed, swallowed. “You driving or me?”

“How about you? I need to reacquaint myself with the city.” She grabbed her purse, slipped on her knee-length charcoal-gray trench and belted it at the waist. When she glanced up at Eric, he turned away. Had he been checking her out? The thought stirred a flutter in her stomach. The last thing she needed was to feel flutters over Eric Hale.

* * *

Eric’s throat turned to sawdust. He’d told himself a thousand times he wasn’t going to appreciate her femininity. It was all professional. He was going to pretend she was his real partner, Luke—with a scruffy jaw and the annoying habit of popping his knuckles. But when she cinched the belt at her slender waist and her hair fell past her shoulders, the five o’clock shadow disappeared, and he caught himself admiring her. Looked as though she’d caught it, too.

He held the door open, refused to cast his eyes anywhere that would be disrespectful, then wiggled another Twizzler from the package to occupy himself. They ambled down the hall to the elevator. If she’d been offended, she hadn’t let on.

Eric rolled his licorice around his lips. “You know if we start digging into the mayor’s life, we’ll have to be invisible about it.”

Bryn punched the elevator button and stared at the steel doors. “Yep.”

Maybe he had offended her.

They walked through the parking lot to his work Durango. Unsure if she’d appreciate him opening her door or not, he paused near the hood of the vehicle. This was work. He hit the fob key and unlocked the doors, then rounded to the driver’s side, feeling like a total schmuck for not being a gentleman.

Bryn climbed inside and strapped on her seat belt. “I can’t see any of our victims willingly going with a gruff thug like the one who attacked me. Unless...” Bryn adjusted the radio, and he ignored her music choices. She had eclectic taste. Or at least, she used to. Minus country. How could a native Memphian not have a love and respect for country music?

Eric darted a glance at her. Her thin index finger tapped against a full bottom lip. “Unless?” So far, he’d been impressed with her ability to get up to speed at a rapid rate.

“Unless he was at the scene in disguise. In Cleveland...” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed, her neck bobbing.

“In Cleveland, what?”

Bryn’s face paled, and she gripped the canvas belt of her coat and stared out the window. What had happened? Eric mentally ran down her cases before transferring to Memphis. The Cleveland Creeper was her last. Whatever had happened might be the reason she left Ohio. And it might be the reason she was attacked.

“Many offenders like to come to the scene and watch, even participate.”

“So he might not have a beard or tattoo?” Eric jumped off 385 into Collierville. Bridgette Danforth’s ex lived out here on a golf course. Golf. His stomach soured.

“No, I’m certain the tattoo was real, which is why I think the beard and boots were his style, not disguise, but... I don’t know.” She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. Was she second-guessing herself? Overthinking? Bringing up Ohio had flustered her. A sheen of sweat beaded around her forehead, and her long lashes fluttered against her skin as she rapidly blinked.

“So, you up for some barbecue later? We gotta eat, and if I remember right you can tear up some ribs.”

She frowned, then grinned. “No, you like ribs. I like chicken. You have a terrible memory.”

But she’d smiled, and the lines across her forehead had smoothed out. “Maybe it was me that liked ribs. Either way, by the time we finish here and the studio downtown, we’ll be close to the Rendezvous. And they should be open by then.”

“Hmm... I somehow feel set up to satisfy your pork habit.”

Technically she had been set up, but not for food. Note to self: do not bring up Cleveland. If and when Bryn wanted to tell him what happened and why she transferred, she would. Unless it was the reason she’d been hurt, and if that was the case he’d find out the details on his own. “What can I say...the stomach wants what the stomach wants.”

Her cell phone rang, and she snagged it from her coat pocket. “Agent Eastman.” She shifted toward the window and lowered her voice. “Yes, I remember. Thank you for calling.” She hung up and went to town clutching the belt on her coat again, leaving wrinkles in the fabric.

“So this is me being nosy.”

“This is me telling you to mind your own business.” She flashed a mock smile and batted her lashes, but distress filled her eyes. How long could he go without pressing her to share what happened in Cleveland? Everything in him wanted to lean over and comfort her, to tell her whatever it was she was safe now. But it wasn’t his place anymore, and that bothered him. They were partners only. Not that partners didn’t care or worry about each other, but he couldn’t see himself reaching over and stroking Luke’s hand. Picture her with scruff.

Nope. Didn’t work. He flashed his badge to the attendant working the booth and entered a gated community set on a golf course. Brick homes with French shutters dotted perfectly manicured lawns. Fall wreaths graced front doors, pots of mums and whatever else those fall flowers were lined sidewalks and weaved between bushes. The kinds of homes and communities Eric had grown up in.

“You still play?”

“Harmonica?” he joked.

Bryn gave him a wooden look. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Golf. “Sometimes. But only when I want to.”

Eric could have gone pro. Almost had. But he’d attended a Royal Family Kids’ Camp sponsored by his church and things changed. Seeing so many abused and neglected children had tugged his heart in ways golf never could. People who hurt children—abused anyone for that matter—deserved justice. So he’d entered the police academy. But Dad and Mom didn’t quite understand the concept of God’s leading. According to them, life was what people made it. Destiny was acquired by going after dreams and desires without the need for God’s plans.

“Good for you, I guess. I always enjoyed watching you play.”

He turned and grinned. Sadness mixed with regret. “I always knew you were there for me. No ulterior motives. No pressure if I won or lost.”

“Kinda like you attending my swim meets.”

This was winding down a serious path. Emotions were surfacing that he couldn’t allow. Too much damage had been done when Abby died. “Well, I have to admit, I was mostly there to see you in a swimsuit.”

She laughed. “You’re such a guy.” Bryn had let his remark go, but Eric knew that deep down she didn’t believe that for a second. He’d been there to support her because he cared about her. Her drive and passion were contagious. Even now, he felt it in her skills as an agent.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever lights your fuse.”

“Do you still swim?” Eric weaved through the subdivision. Large sweet gums towered overhead. An array of gold, red and orange leaves swayed with the fall breeze. Not the best day for golfing.

“Yes. As therapy.” She frowned at the word therapy as if it coated her tongue in acid. “I joined a gym not far from Holt’s rental house. Bought a new swimsuit...and a dog.” She sighed. “You golf with your partner? Luke?”

“Luke? Golf? Hardly. But if I wanted to suffer some punishment and box, I’d call him first. I play a few games every now and then with my dad.”

“Really?” Surprise lit her face.

“He stopped hounding me about getting back into the game when my profession became useful to him.”

The air in the SUV grew thick. He hadn’t thought his answer through. He’d said he wouldn’t bring up the past and then did anyway.

Bryn rubbed her hand against her thigh. “How...how are your parents?”

Eric pulled into a circular drive and cut the engine.

Brave question.

“Our lives were altered forever, Bryn. How do you think they’re doing?”

“Just for the record,” she said, “our lives were altered, too. We live with the guilt of what Rand did to not just Abby but the three girls he murdered before her. I grew up with him, and I never knew the darkness in him. I feel guilty for that, as well.”

Eric clenched his jaw. “I know. Let’s just not talk about it right now, okay?”

He’d rather focus on finding the man killing these women than reliving the tragedy in his own life.