Читать книгу Private S.W.A.T. Takeover - Julie Miller - Страница 11

“Got him.” Holden Kincaid framed the target in the crosshairs of his rifle scope, blinking once to make sure his vision was clear.

Clear like crystal.

His mind and body followed suit, blocking out any distraction that might interfere with the execution of the task at hand. The crisp October air lost its chill. The rough friction of the roofing tiles against the brace of his elbows and thighs vanished. Emotions were put on hold as months of training calmed the beat of his pulse.

Every observation was now made with cold-eyed detachment. From his vantage point atop the neighbor’s roof across the alley, he could look right over the privacy fence into Delores Mabry’s trashed kitchen. There was a cloudy spot on the window glass, a greasy hand print from the last time the perp had looked out into the back yard. But the smudge didn’t mask the gray-haired woman cowering behind a chair against the refrigerator. The window’s curtains hung wide open, indicating the target hadn’t given much thought to how the police would react to this hostage situation. Holden’s target was big enough to make this a relatively easy shot—if his orders had been to shoot to kill.

But as the pudgy stomach in the bright white T-shirt passed by the window again, Holden knew there would be nothing easy about this shot.

Al Mabry was armed. He was moving. And the poor SOB probably had no clue to the danger his delusional state had put his mother, himself, and a dozen cops into. Going off his meds did that to a schizophrenic. Mabry was ill. Suicidal. If possible, KCPD wanted to end this standoff with everyone alive. But if Mabry decided to obey the voices in his head and suddenly start shooting up more than the living room furniture, then Holden’s orders would change and a life would end.

No emotions allowed.

Static crackled across Holden’s helmet radio and Lieutenant Mike Cutler, his S.W.A.T. team leader and scene commander, came online. “You can take that shot?”

Holden rolled his shoulders and neck, easing the last bit of tension from his body before going still in his prone position. “Yes, sir.”

“Molloy, can you confirm?”

Dominic Molloy, Holden’s lookout, backup and best friend, adjusted his position on the roof beside Holden and peered through his binoculars. “I wouldn’t want to take it. But I’m not the big guy.” Holden sensed, rather than saw, the teasing grin around the steady chomp of Dom’s gum. “The hostage is on the floor,” continued Molloy. “Scared out of her mind, maybe, but she doesn’t appear to be harmed. Mabry’s pacing the kitchen with his gun to his head. Hasn’t pointed it at Mama yet. He does lower the weapon when he stops to drink his coffee.”

Mabry had ordered his mother to brew a fresh pot earlier. After spending the better part of the past night on this call, Holden longed for some hot coffee himself. Or a hot breakfast. Or a hot…No. He couldn’t afford to feel anything right now. Focus.

“The perp’s routine hasn’t varied for the last forty minutes,” Holden reported. “The next sip he takes, I could drop him. I think I can even neutralize the gun.”

“You think?”

Cutler’s skepticism didn’t rattle Holden. “Not a problem, sir. My shot is clear.”

Dom chuckled beside him. “I see what you’re planning.” He raised his voice for Cutler and their teammates to hear. “I can confirm. Kincaid can take the shot.”

“We’ve been messin’ with this drama long enough,” Cutler rumbled. “There’s no way to reason with him and I don’t want this to escalate.” If Mike Cutler couldn’t talk a hostage down from his crazy place, then no one could.

Holden was ready to take the next step. “Do you want me to take the shot, sir?”

“Let’s get him back in the psych ward. Remember, incapacitate him and we’ll take it from there. He hasn’t hurt anything but the furniture yet. I’d like to keep it that way.” Lieutenant Cutler’s tone was concise and commanding—a trait that had always inspired Holden’s own confidence. “Assault team ready to move in?”

“Yes, sir.” The responses echoed from both the front and rear ground locations.

“You have clearance, Kincaid. Assault team—on my go.”

Dom patted the top of Holden’s helmet. “You’re up, big guy. Do it.”

Shoulder? Knee? Either shot would take Mabry down. Funny how the man who’d murdered Holden’s father six months ago had shared the same skills with a gun. One neat shot to the forehead, one to the heart. Clean. Precise. Deadly.

Hell. Where had that thought come from? Get out of my head. But the comparison lingered, forcing Holden to think his way through it before he could purge the illtimed distraction.

The killer had used a hand gun, not a high-powered rifle like the one Holden cradled in his grip. He’d been a good forty yards closer than Holden was to this shot. The victim had been his dad, not a stranger. Had John Kincaid pleaded for his life? Had he held his head high in stoic silence at the end? Had he known death was coming?

Al Mabry didn’t know.

Holden’s heart quickened with each detail, beating harder against his chest, pumping a familiar rage and sorrow into his veins.

The man who’d killed his father had taken a perverse pleasure in torturing him before pulling the trigger. Holden was a better man than that. Mabry wouldn’t die. And if he had to die, he wouldn’t suffer. This was his job. Lieutenant Cutler’s S.W.A.T. team was here to save the damn day.

“Get out of my head,” he muttered, willing his training to retake control of his emotions.

“What’s that, buddy?” Dom asked.

This is my job.

“Taking the shot.” Holden iced his nerves, stilled his breath, framed the target in his sights and squeezed the trigger.

Boom.

Holden’s shoulder absorbed the kick of the rifle. Glass shattered and Al Mabry screamed.

“Go!” Cutler’s order echoed through his helmet.

Crimson bloomed on the perp’s hand as the gun sailed across the kitchen. Holden quickly lined up a second shot to the perp’s left temple in case things went south. But before Al Mabry could fully understand that he’d been shot, Holden’s teammates had battered down the door and rushed the mentally disturbed young man. Jones and Delgado had Mabry facedown on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, the gun secured, before Holden allowed himself another blink.

The hate and sorrow were buried. The ice remained. Closing his eyes, Holden finally allowed himself to breathe.

“All clear, big guy.” Dom sat up beside him. His boots grated on the gravel roof as he stowed his gear into the various compartments of his uniform. With the flat of his hand, he reached over and slapped Holden’s helmet. “Hey. Cutler gave us the ‘all clear.’ I guess there’s a reason why they call you the best. You were aiming for the gun, right?”

Even more than the chatter of commands and replies zinging from the radio in his helmet, Dom’s gibe reminded Holden that he needed to get moving.

Striving for the same detachment from his work that Dominic Molloy seemed to enjoy, Holden rolled over, splayed his hand in Molloy’s face and pushed him away. He could give as good as he got. “Jealous, much?”

“You wish.” Dom’s eyes sparkled with humor. “I could have made that shot if I wanted to. But it’s my job to watch your backside.”

Holden secured his rifle and picked up the tripod as he pushed to his feet and made his way toward the ladder at the front edge of the roof. “Then enjoy the view. Last man down buys the beer.”

Once on the ground, they shed their helmets and locked their equipment in the back of the black S.W.A.T. van. Combing his fingers through the sweat-dampened spikes of his hair, Holden crossed down to the street to join Rafael Delgado and Joseph Jones, Jr.—Triple J or Trip, as he liked to be called.

He held up his hand to urge the gathering crowd of curiosity-seekers off the street while the others guided the ambulance carrying Al Mabry through. Lieutenant Cutler followed right behind, signaling the EMTs when they were clear to take off. Cutler joined the team as they gathered at the van. The lieutenant congratulated them on a successful mission, reminded them to write their reports. Then he shook Holden’s hand and pulled him aside. “Nice shooting, Kincaid.”

The October morning had enough bite in it to create a cloud between them when Holden released a long, weary breath. Winter was going to be damp and cold—and early—this year in Kansas City. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll get Mabry to the hospital to stitch up his hand and have him evaluated. But he’ll be all right.”

Holden propped his hands at his hips and nodded toward the house. “Take his mother, too. You said she had a history of high blood pressure. Being taken hostage by her own son can’t be good for her health.”

“Don’t worry. She’s on the ambulance, too. We’ll let her decompress, then take her statement at the hospital. I want you to do the same.”

“Go to the hospital?” Other than being hungry as a bear and needing to take a whiz, Holden was in fine shape.

“Decompress. You’re wound up tighter than a cork in a champagne bottle. You’ve been on duty twenty-four hours, standing watch while we tried to talk Mabry off the ceiling for the last eight.” Cutler pulled off his KCPD ball cap and smoothed his hand over his salt-and-pepper hair before tugging the cap back into place. “Your dad would be proud of you today. By wounding Al Mabry, you probably saved his life. And his mother’s. He was an innocent man, a sick man, but I know you were prepared to make a kill shot.”

“Just doing my job, Lieutenant. I turn off thinking about anything,” he lied, “and take the shot you tell me to.”

“Uh-huh.” There was something in Cutler’s sharp, dark eyes that saw more than Holden wanted. So he scuffed the steel toe of his boot on the pavement and looked down to watch a tiny pebble fly against the curb—until Cutler’s words demanded his attention. “Think about this, Kincaid. Before you report for your next shift, I want to hear that you got drunk, got laid or got checked out by the departmental psychologist. I know this has been a tough year for you, and this was a tough scene to work. Go home. Go out. Go to the doc. But take care of yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dominic materialized at Holden’s shoulder, his wiseass grin firmly in place. “Aren’t you gonna order me to go get some tail, too, sir?”

“That’d just be feeding the fire.”

Trip and Delgado joined the circle, laughing out loud at Cutler’s deadpan reply.

“Ha. Ha.” Dom slapped Holden on the shoulder. “C’mon, big guy. We’ll check out the action at the Shamrock after we clean up and get a bite to eat. Drinks are on me.” He turned to Trip and Delgado. “You comin’ ?”

“You’re gonna pry open that tight wallet of yours?” Trip’s lazy drawl mocked him with awestruck humor. “This I gotta see.”

“Lieutenant?” Dom looked up at their commander. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“I’ll pass this time. My son has a football game tonight. I’ll check in with you guys day after tomorrow. Don’t forget those reports.”

A chorus of “yes, sir’s” quickly changed into a noisy conversation about the new lady bartender at the Shamrock and whether she had any sisters she’d like to introduce to them. Delgado climbed in behind the wheel and started the van while the rest of the team buckled themselves in. Holden had found the woman pretty enough the last time they’d gone to the Shamrock, but for some reason he was having a hard time remembering what she looked like.

He must be off his game big time, to let his feelings about his father’s murder distract him from his work—and his play time—and to let them distract him enough that Lieutenant Cutler had noticed.

He’d been through all the grief counseling, and had been cleared by the department’s psychologist to return to duty four months ago. He hadn’t lied to Cutler or the psychologist about his and his three brothers’ determination to see their father’s killer brought to justice. Even though they weren’t allowed to work the case because of a conflict of interest, Holden, Atticus, Sawyer and Edward had all found ways to keep tabs on the stalledout investigation.

Atticus and his fiancée, Brooke Hansford, had uncovered evidence about a covert organization named Z Group that had operated in eastern Europe before the breakup of the Soviet Union. Before becoming a cop at KCPD, their father had worked with Brooke’s late parents in Z Group as a liaison from Army intelligence. Something that had happened to a double agent all those years ago in a foreign country had gotten John Kincaid killed.

His brother Sawyer and his pregnant wife, Melissa, had dealt with an offshoot of Z Group soon after their father’s funeral. But one of the thugs hired by the group had had a personal vendetta against Melissa. He’d terrorized her and kidnapped their young son. Despite the opportunity to blow open the murder investigation, Sawyer had done what any husband would have—he protected his family. John Kincaid would have done the same—any of Holden’s brothers would have—so there was no blame there. Now, Melissa and their child were safe, but anyone who could tell them anything had been driven into hiding or killed.

And yesterday morning, while Atticus had been reporting on the trip he and Brooke had taken to Sarajevo to visit her parents’ graves—only to discover that it wasn’t her mother’s body that had been buried in that casket nearly thirty years ago—Holden had run smack dab into Liza Parrish. A name he wasn’t supposed to know. A woman he wasn’t supposed to meet.

The lone witness to his father’s murder.

Yeah. He was a little distracted.

A lot distracted.

Liza Parrish could make the scattered pieces of this whole jigsaw puzzle fall into place. His father’s killer would be brought to trial and the Kincaid family could finally find peace.

So why wasn’t she talking? Why wasn’t she telling the detectives assigned to the investigation everything she knew?

And why the hell couldn’t he remember what the sexy bartender looked like, the one who’d slipped him her number at the Shamrock, when he had no trouble whatsoever picturing freckles and copper hair, a sweet, round bottom and an attitude that wouldn’t quit?

As much as his father’s murder challenged his ability to focus on his work, little Miss Liza with the sass and curves—and answers—kept nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. If he couldn’t get his head together, he’d be a bigger danger to his team than the bad guys they were trained to neutralize.

Cutler realized that.

“Yo, big guy.” Dom smacked him on the shoulder, pulling Holden from his thoughts. “I said whoever got Josie’s number first would have to buy the second round of drinks tonight. You in?”

Josie. Right. That was the bartender’s name. Yet it was hard to razz his buddies about the fact he already had her number, when he couldn’t even recall the color of her hair.

But copper-red? Short—almost boyishly cropped and sexy as hell? That he could remember.

He was so screwed. Faking a lightheartedness he didn’t feel, Holden fixed a grin on his face and turned to Dom. “You’re on.”

It was a hollow victory. But right now he’d take whatever victory he could get.

HOLDEN’S LONG STRIDES ATE UP the pavement as he ran the abandoned Union Pacific railroad bed. It had been reclaimed as part of an exercise trail along Rock Creek, near the Kansas City suburb of Fairmount, and would make for a scenic run in the daylight, with the red, gold and orange leaves of the old maples and oaks rising along the hills to his left and flattening out to the residential streets to his right.

Pulling back the cuff of his sweatshirt, he pushed the button for light on his watch and checked the time. At 11:27 p.m., however, the deserted path was gray and shadowed beneath the cool moonlight. Still, it was a good place to get away from the traffic and crowd near his downtown apartment without venturing too far from the amenities of the city.

Hanging out with his buddies at the Shamrock hadn’t provided the cure Lieutenant Cutler had prescribed. Al Mabry was fine and full of remorse now that he was back with his doctors at the Odd Fellows Psychiatric Hospital. His mother, Delores, was resting comfortably at Truman Medical Center for a night of routine observation. No one had been seriously hurt. Holden had made a good shot. They should all be celebrating.

But the beer and noise had given him a headache. The greasy food had been tasty enough, but it had sat like a rock in his stomach. As for the women? Well, when doing a little flirting began to feel like a polite chore he had to perform, Holden knew he needed to get out of there.

With the honest excuse of a long day and a longer night before that dragging him down, he shook Dominic’s hand, warned Delgado and Trip to keep an eye on him, and left. Instead of heading home, though, he found himself at his Fourth Precinct police locker, changing into his gray sweats and running shoes. After a brief chat with his brother, Atticus, who was there to pick up Brooke for a late dinner after a meeting with her boss, precinct commander Mitch Taylor, Holden pulled on his black KCPD stocking cap and headed across town.

Sleep might have been a wiser choice, but Holden was more inclined to get his blood and adrenaline pumping, and cleanse himself of this restless apprehension from the inside out.

Normally, he was content to work out in the precinct’s gym or run the streets near his apartment. But tonight, he needed something fresh and different to shake him out of this funk. The brisk dampness in the air would clear his head, while every turn on the route would reveal something new to pique his interest.

And if the path just happened to lead him past the address where Liza Parrish lived, then that could be excused as coincidence. The houses were close to the road, but set far enough apart to almost give the feeling of living out in the country. Probably at one time in Kansas City’s history, this had been farmland, but with expansion and annexations, the neighborhood was inevitably being transformed into suburbia. As he passed a quarter mile of grass and trees, he realized how this must seem like a different world from the downtown animal clinic where Liza worked an internship through the University of Missouri College of Veterinary Medicine.

“Are you looking up what I think you are?” Atticus had caught Holden sitting at a computer in one of the darkened precinct offices. Leading his fiancée by the hand, he’d entered the room before Holden was even aware of his presence.

Brooke peeked around Atticus’s shoulder with a wry smile. “Sorry. We were on our way to the car when I mentioned that I’d seen you here. He figured out the rest.”

His smarty-pants older brother never missed a trick, so there was no sense in lying to him. Holden folded the print-out he’d made and shut down the computer. “Yeah. I checked out the public information available on Liza Parrish. Brooke just told me where to find it on the computer.”

“You helped him?” Shaking his head, Atticus turned to Brooke. “Honey, we talked about this. As much as it galls me to sit on the sidelines, we have to let Grove and his men run their investigation.”

Brooke adjusted her glasses on her nose and softened her expression into a smile that always seemed to turn his brother’s suave control into mush. “That’s not what you said this summer, when we were on a hunt to decipher the clues your father left me. You were certainly involved in the investigation then.”

“Yeah, well, we both know what kind of danger that ‘investigation’ put you in. I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”

She lay a calming hand on Atticus’s arm. “All I did was show Holden a shortcut to the public access files on the computer. So he wouldn’t accidentally trigger any security protocol that might alert Grove or anyone else to his search.”

Holden circled around the desk and draped an arm around her shoulders. “I knew if I had a computer question, Brooke was the source to go to. I didn’t mean to get her into trouble.”

As their father’s former secretary, Brooke had been a friend for so long that she felt like family. Holden had been more than pleased to see that Atticus had opened up his heart and put an engagement ring on her finger to make that familial feeling into the real thing. So he wasn’t about to let his leggy buddy here accept any of his brother’s blame.

But Atticus wasn’t angry, nor was he looking to place blame. His pale gray eyes reflected concern and an admiration for Brooke’s talents that went far beyond her computer skills.

“Brains as well as beauty, eh?” He pulled Brooke from Holden’s hug and curled her under his possessive arm. After pressing a kiss to Brooke’s temple, Atticus gave Holden a look as serious as any he’d ever seen. “Just be careful, little brother. Don’t get caught sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” He guided Brooke to the door, then paused to glance over his shoulder. “And if you find out anything, give me a call.”

Holden grinned. Yeah, Mr. Serious was not only crazy in love but as determined as he was to find the whole truth about their father’s murder. “Will do.”

So now he was here with his brother’s blessing, running his third mile, wondering why the hell he’d thought checking out Liza Parrish’s place would give him any sense of peace. He was working up a sweat and getting irritated with himself because no matter how hard he pushed his body, his thoughts kept coming back to the freckle-faced witness who could make or break the investigation.

At least Holden wasn’t as alone in this misguided late night jaunt as he’d first thought. Someone else was out on foot, either walking the streets a couple blocks over or biking or running the path ahead of him, closer to the houses. One by one, he could hear dogs barking at the intruder passing their territory.

Holden’s senses pricked up a notch to a mild alert. This wasn’t a dangerous part of town, but it was pretty remote for a woman who lived alone to reside in. Surely, Liza Parrish wouldn’t be out for a stroll at this time of night. The woman did possess some common sense, didn’t she? Of course, her preliminary deposition to KCPD said she’d been chasing after a stray near the docks in the warehouse district where his father had been murdered. Late at night. And that was definitely a dangerous part of town. Maybe he should hold off on the common sense assessment until…

Another bark pierced the night, turning his attention back to the houses. It was something yippy, aggressive, much closer than the other sounds had been. Holden’s wariness sharpened the way it did when a call came in for the S.W.A.T. team. Maybe it’d be worth a detour through one of the yards to the nearest street to find out what was putting all those mutts on alert.

Lengthening his stride, Holden veered toward the next access point and rounded the corner, straight into the path of a fast-moving pack. “Ah, hell!”

The woman holding on to that pack gave a curse as pithy as his own, a fact which amused him for all of two seconds before he realized she was zigging when she should have zagged. Between his bulk, the momentum of the three dogs, the tangle of leashes and the speed of her roller blades, the collision was inevitable.

“Look out!” Holden threw his arms out to catch her.

The smallest of the dogs darted between his legs. The greyhound leaped and the big malamute just kept running.

“Yukon!” the woman shouted as her helmet smacked into Holden’s shoulder.

Recognition was as surprising as it was irrelevant. A leash jerked around Holden’s ankles, cinching his legs and abruptly tripping his feet. “Hold on!”

He snaked his arms around the redhead’s waist and twisted, dodging the dogs and taking the brunt of their fall as they went down hard. Holden landed on his back with Liza Parrish sprawled across his chest.

“What the hell…? You?” Liza froze above him. The sounds of panting dogs and her accusation filled the air. Her eyes caught the moonlight and reflected like silver coins. But there was more fire than cold metal in their expression as surprise quickly changed into indignation. Bracing one fist against his shoulder, she pushed herself up. “Are you following me?”

“I…damn.” Holden sat up as best he could with a nylon lead looped around his neck as she clambered backward onto his thighs. He loosened the cord and pulled it over his head. “I ran into you, Sherlock—I didn’t run up behind you. Nobody’s following anybody. Watch it,” he added as a skate came dangerously close to the promised land in her struggle to extricate herself from his lap. “Ow!” That was because of the malamute, still eager to run, dragging them both off the curb.

“Yukon, no! Stop! Catch his leash!” Liza had lost her grip on the leads in their tumble, and the biggest dog took a shot at freedom.

Holden lunged for the disappearing strap. “Got it.” The big dog nearly pulled Holden’s arm from its socket, but Holden tugged back. “Whoa!” With the sudden jerk on his lead, the gray and white malamute halted, turned. His dark, nearly black eyes seemed to tell Holden exactly what he could do with his command. “Is he friendly?”

“Not much.”

Great, thought Holden. “Yukon. Sit.” The malamute needed a minute to think about it.

“Sit!” Holden gave the leash a slight jerk. He was feeling bruised and off-kilter and slightly less amused by this situation than he might have been on any normal day with any other woman sitting in his lap.

The dog shook his silver fur, then curled his bushy tail around his backside and eased back onto his haunches.

“Sorry.” The fringe of Liza’s coppery hair was barely visible beneath the rim of her helmet as she adjusted it on her head. Then she slid onto her kneepads beside him and tried to untangle the leashes that bound their legs together. “He doesn’t warm up to people easily, but as far as I know, he doesn’t bite. Bruiser’s the one who’ll nip—”

A miniature German Shepherd-looking terrier thing jumped, barking, onto Holden’s thigh and stretched as close to Holden’s face as his ensnared leash allowed. He recognized the yipping bark from earlier. “Um…”

“Bruiser. Sit.” Liza snapped her fingers and pointed, and the black and tan spitfire moved back to the pavement and obeyed.

“Sweet.” He admired her authority over the dog. Not counting the tan greyhound who was sniffing his stocking cap, the canines seemed to be under control. Holden joined the quest to untangle themselves, but a closer inspection revealed the pale cast beneath the freckles on Liza’s cheeks. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “That’s what the helmet and pads are for.” She spun around on her knees to untangle the red leash that had wound around his ankles. “Are you?”

“I’m fine.” In fact, he barely noticed the ache in his shoulder and hip. Sheathed in fitted black running pants, her firmly rounded bottom bounced in front of him. Holden politely looked away—for a second or two. Heck, he was a healthy young male, and she was definitely a healthy young female. Holden Kincaid. He shifted uncomfortably as his mother’s voice reminded him of her expectations about how a lady should be treated. Ogling wasn’t on the list. Ignoring the improper heat simmering in his veins, Holden turned his attention to the greyhound who insisted on being petted. He stroked her smooth, warm flank. “I guess the dogs are okay, too? Are these guys all yours?”

Liza glanced up long enough to visually inspect each creature. “I’m sure they’re fine.” She continued to work quickly, almost frantically, to extricate herself and the dogs. When Holden reached down to help, she snatched her fingers away to attack a different tangle.

In another few moments they were free. Holden pulled his feet beneath him and stood while she looped the handle of each leash around her wrist. He took her arm to help her stand. But as soon as she was upright, she shrugged off his touch, nearly toppling herself again. “Easy,” he murmured.

She skated backward far enough to put her beyond his well-intentioned reach. When she was firmly balanced on her wheels, she tilted her chin and glared. Her puff of breath clouded the air between them. “What are you doing here? I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that.” But she clearly wasn’t one for sarcasm, so he turned to more serious matters, and gestured up and down the empty path. “You should find an indoor track if you want to run at night.”

She pulled the dogs between them and straightened their leads. “And who would allow these three to join me? They need their exercise, too.”

“Then how about running in the daylight? Even with the dogs to protect you—” not that the greyhound nuzzling his hand was any great deterrent, “—this path is isolated enough to make it a dangerous place to run at night.”

“You’re here,” she argued.

“It takes a few more guts to go after someone my size than yours.” She was above-average height, and the wheels on her skates put her at eye-level with his chin. But there was still something distinctly feminine and vulnerable about her slender curves and youthful freckles that could catch a determined predator’s eye. “Any woman should take the proper precautions.”

Her eyes darted to the side as she seemed to consider his advice. But there was nothing but bold bravado in her expression when she tipped her chin to meet his gaze again. “You’re John Kincaid’s son. Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah.” There was no sense lying about what she must have already guessed. “I’m Holden Kincaid and you’re Liza Parrish.” He extended his hand to complete the introduction.

She didn’t take it. Instead, she wound the three leashes around her palm and tested their snug fit. “You’re not here by accident, are you. Detective Grove and the D.A. want to keep my face and name out of the papers—keep me as anonymous as possible. How did you find me?”

“I’m a cop.”

“You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

“So you keep saying.” Propping his hands at his hips, Holden leaned in a fraction. “But my brothers and I intend to find out the truth about what happened to our father. A gag order isn’t going to keep us from knowing that you’re the key witness. What story are you telling Grove? Did you see who killed my father?”

“I can’t answer those questions.”

Maybe assertive cop mode wasn’t the best approach here. He reached down and scratched behind the ears of the willing greyhound, suspecting the dogs might be the way to gain her trust. “What’s her name?”

“Cruiser.” The confident voice hesitated, as though suspicious of the new tactic. “She’s a rescue hound. She used to race. They’re all rescue dogs. The little guy’s Bruiser and the big guy is Yukon.”

Though the terrier mix seemed to be watching the interchange between mistress and stranger intently, the malamute faced away from them, looking poised and eager to continue their run. Holden said, “I know it’s scary to come forward to work with the police, especially when there’s a murder involved. But we have teams in place who can protect you. KCPD and the D.A.’s office won’t let anyone hurt you. Just tell Grove the truth. He’ll make the arrangements to put you in a safe house if you’re worried about some kind of retaliation.” He looked up from petting his new friend and offered Liza a gentle plea. “This case has been dragging on forever. The longer it takes to solve it, the less likely it is that we will.”

The conversation seemed to rattle her independent attitude. Her silvery gaze blinked, fell to his chest, wandered off into the shadows. The abrasive woman who’d avoided his touch and given him lip was now avoiding eye contact and backing away. “I really can’t help you. I mean, I want to, but—I don’t think I can help you.”

“You don’t have to break protocol and talk to me,” Holden reassured her, “but please be completely honest with Detective Grove. Tomorrow. As soon as you can.”

“I need to be going.” She turned away, clicked her tongue at the dogs. “Good night, Mr. Kincaid.”

“It’s Holden.” But she was already skating ahead with her dogs, crouching slightly and holding on as the two bigger dogs pulled her down the path. Little Bruiser jogged along behind. In less than a minute she was out of sight beyond the trees and shadows.

Holden tipped his face to the moon, cursing his dumb luck and dumber idea for coming here in the first place. So he’d said his piece to Liza Parrish—gotten that much frustration out of his system. Instead of speeding the process, he’d probably terrorized the woman into being even more afraid of sharing everything she knew with the police.

He took a few moments to stretch before resuming his run. A few moments to realize that her scent clung to his shirt, citrusy and fresh, with a tinge of antiseptic thrown in. Feminine. Clean. It only intensified his improper fascination with the woman.

He gave himself a mocking thumbs-up. “Way to get her out of your head, Kincaid.”

He’d better make that appointment with the department shrink because he didn’t feel like getting drunk and when he was off his clear-headed game like this, he had no business getting laid.

Looking around the maze of shadows and moonlight, Holden forced himself to think like a cop. Things had quieted down in the neighborhood now that Liza and her pack had passed through. But the exercise path was still deserted. It was still nearly midnight. Even if she wasn’t a murder witness, this wasn’t the safest route for a lone woman to take.

Holden inhaled a deep breath and turned around. Keeping his distance so she didn’t know he was following, he jogged after Liza and her dogs, keeping a watchful eye out. That’s all his family needed—to have something freaky happen to the eccentric, albeit finely built, redhead who could identify his father’s killer.