Читать книгу Double-Edged Detective - Mallory Kane - Страница 8

Ryker emerged into consciousness, leaving behind a sexy dream involving NicoleBeckham. The subtle scent of melon and an afterthought of coffee tickled his nostrils. He shifted, and realized he was lying on his back, sprawled diagonally across a double bed. His eyes opened to a slit, and he saw that faint light was seeping in from behind a set of pale green curtains.

Was he still dreaming? He took another breath and his mouth watered at the scent of melon and coffee. Memories of the night before stirred his desire. Nope. This was definitely not a memory. It was reality.

He frowned and squinted. Surprisingly, he’d slept through the night, something he rarely did—never if there was a woman in bed with him. He tried to lift his arm to check his watch, and found that he couldn’t. His arm was weighted down by Nicole’s shoulder. Her honey-smooth, naked, rounded shoulder.

Then he noticed that more of her was draped across him. She was on her stomach and her face was buried in her pillow. He raised his head and admired the sexy curve of her buttocks half-hidden by a sheet. He looked further. Her legs were sprawled across his calf.

Without allowing himself too much time to think about why he was so reluctant to move, when usually he couldn’t wait to get home after a date, he slid his leg out from under hers, turned over and pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, then slipped his arm out from beneath her.

She lifted her head and gazed at him through heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes. Then her gaze went to the window behind him. “It’s daylight,” she said, sounding surprised.

“We slept all night,” he responded, smiling at her. “How are you doing this morning?”

She sat up, pulling the rumpled sheet with her and pushed her tousled hair back from her face. “I’m fine,” she said on a yawn, then smiled sheepishly. “I don’t usually sleep all night, especially—”

“With someone else in the bed?” he finished. “Me neither.”

She looked at him thoughtfully.

“What?” he asked, sitting up beside her and making sure the sheet covered him.

She blinked. “Nothing. Are you hungry?”

“Starving. What’ve you got?”

“Not much. I rarely eat at home.”

Ryker grinned. “Come on. Surely you have eggs.”

“I think so.”

“And we know you have coffee. So you stay here, and I’ll make breakfast. When I’m done, you can make the coffee in that fancy espresso machine of yours.”

“I thought you said you didn’t cook.”

“I said I didn’t cook much.” He put a finger against her mouth. “Just say thank you. You’ve cooked for me practically every night for almost a year. Let me return the favor.”

“Thank you,” she said against his finger. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss, then sat up and grabbed his briefs and jeans and headed for the bathroom.

Once Ryker had gone into the kitchen, Nicole put her hands over her mouth and squealed silently.

What had she done? In the year since the break-in, she hadn’t had one date. Not one. She hadn’t even thought about dating. Certainly hadn’t missed it. She’d been too busy making a reputation for herself as a chef all over again at a new restaurant.

Now, suddenly, she’d fallen into bed with a man—a cop—whose only interest in her was that she’d managed to survive his faceless killer.

What was the matter with her? In the first place, she never did that. Never.

Certainly not with a stranger.

Leaning back against the headboard and pulling the sheet up over her, Nicole indulged in a bit of morning-after basking. Last night she’d slept better than she had in over a year. Maybe in forever. Her mother’s job as a night cleaning woman in Baton Rouge hadn’t contributed to sleeping well. Her hours had been from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. while she left her young daughter alone on the couch that they made into a bed in their room in a run-down rooming house.

Was it bizarre that the man who was trying to convince her that her life was in danger was the same man who made her feel safer than she’d ever felt before in her life?

Most definitely.

Nicole heard pans rattling in the kitchen. She couldn’t imagine what Ryker was cooking up out of her sparsely stocked refrigerator. She hoped the eggs weren’t too old. She couldn’t remember when she’d bought them.

Jumping up, she ran to the bathroom and washed and brushed her teeth, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that read Kiss the Chef. Just as she was running a comb through her hair, she heard Ryker.

“Come on and make the coffee,” he called.

“Whatever you found to cook, it smells wonderful,” she said as she came into the kitchen and headed for the espresso machine. By the time she had the mugs filled, the plates were on the table. “I assume the eggs were okay?”

“I floated them in water. They sank.” He leaned forward and kissed her, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.

“What?” she asked as her heart gave a little leap. He was even more handsome this morning. His hair, damp from his shower, looked darker, which somehow made his eyes look bluer.

“Just following instructions,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her nose, then looking down at the front of her T-shirt. He gently traced the letters.

“Oh, that.” She shivered and her cheeks flamed as his fingertips slid across her breasts. She set a mug down near his plate, then sat. “I never really thought about what it says. What kind of eggs are these?”

“My special scrambled eggs. The only bread I found was green, and I didn’t think green toast and eggs sounded good, so eggs is all you get.”

“That’s fine.” She picked up a fork and tasted the dish. The eggs were fluffy and creamy, with a hint of something savory. “They’re amazing,” she remarked.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he said with a laugh. “Although I have to admit, this is pretty much the extent of my cooking skills. Well, this and sausage gumbo.”

“You can make gumbo? That’s quite a talent.”

“My mother taught me how to make a perfect roux, and as anyone in Louisiana knows—”

“You can’t have a good gumbo without a good roux,” Nicole finished, smiling. “What’s in here that makes them so creamy? I know there’s no cream in the refrigerator.”

Ryker shook his head as he shoveled forkfuls of eggs down and chased them with coffee. “Mayonnaise.”

“Mayonnaise.” She’d never thought about mixing mayonnaise and eggs, although they obviously complemented each other perfectly. “And the savory flavor?”

“Onions. I had to use dried minced onions. You really don’t keep much food around, for a chef.”

Nicole’s mouth was full, so she had to swallow and drink some coffee before she could answer. “I told you. It’s a lot of trouble to cook for one person,” she said, wiping her mouth on a sheet of paper towel Ryker had folded for a napkin.

“Tell me about it.”

“But I am totally stealing your scrambled egg recipe,” she teased.

“No, you’re not. That’s my copyrighted recipe. Not unless you call it Eggs Delancey.”

“How about Ryker’s Amazing Morning-After Breakfast?” she teased.

“That’s a mouthful.”

She picked up her plate and stood at the very instant he did the same thing. They nearly collided.

Ryker slid his plate under hers and took them both. “I’ve got the dishes.” He leaned over and kissed her again. As before, it started as a tease, a little peck on the lips, but she leaned forward, too, and the simple little kiss turned into much more.

Ryker put his hand holding the mug around her and pulled her closer, until the plates in his other hand were pressing into her breastbone. Coffee and salt mingled with bits of egg as their kiss deepened.

Nicole felt the fire starting deep inside her. She made a little involuntary sound in her throat.

Ryker pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Think the dishes could wait?” he whispered.

“I definitely think they could—” A harsh jangle interrupted her.

“Damn,” he said. “That’s my phone.” He retrieved his jacket from the floor beside the front door.

It was William Crenshaw, a friend and fellow detective. “What’s up, Bill?”

“We got another one.”

“Another what?” Ryker glanced at Nicole. She was rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He turned his back to her.

Bill sucked in a deep breath. “Another girl. Dead in her apartment.”

Ryker’s whole body went on alert. Everybody on the force knew about his certainty that St. Tammany Parish had a serial killer. Three young women had been killed in three years, all inside their homes, and all with weapons of convenience.

“When?” he barked.

“The Courtyard Apartments on Main Street in Chef Voleur. Neighbors saw her lying on her patio this morning. Looks like she collapsed while trying to escape.”

“Damn it. Today’s the—” he held the phone away from his ear and glanced at the date “—twenty-second. Okay. I’ll be right there.” Ryker hung up and turned to find Nicole looking at him. The running water was off. How much had she heard? He didn’t want her to know that another woman had been killed.

“You have to go?” she asked.

He nodded. “Got a situation.” He ran a hand across his damp hair.

“Is it bad?”

“It might be.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know how you do what you do. Chasing the bad guys. Putting yourself in danger, day after day.”

He shrugged, suddenly wanting to be out of there, and not just because he had a new murder to investigate.

Nicole was going to keep on asking questions, and eventually, she’d get around to questions he didn’t want to answer. Questions she really didn’t want to know the answers to.

He tucked in his shirt, donned his shoulder holster and fastened it, and shook out his jacket. “I’ll see you later,” he said, glancing around to make sure he hadn’t left anything.

Nicole started toward him, but he grabbed the front doorknob.

“I’ll call you,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he headed out, closing the door behind him. As he vaulted down the stairs, he winced at his words. He’d meant them, but the offhand phrase had become a cliché for one-night stands. All he could do was hope that Nicole had sense enough to know that when he was called, he had to go.

He got in his car and took off, his mind already turning to the crime scene he was speeding toward.

October 22. The killer was right on time.

NICOLE TWISTED THE KITCHEN TOWEL in her hands as she stared at her front door. The best night of her life had suddenly turned sour.

Of course she understood that Ryker was a detective. Emergency phone calls and life-or-death situations were part of his job description. The fact that he’d rushed out so quickly wasn’t the problem.

His hastily thrown out I’ll call you wasn’t the problem, either. Although it did occur to her that he hadn’t asked for her phone number. A small pang of regret stabbed her in the chest. I would be a shame if he didn’t call.

But the bigger problem was, he’d lied to her about the call. Or at least he hadn’t told her the whole truth. She’d heard him say the date. Seen the look on his face as he listened to the caller. It didn’t take a genius, or even a detective, to figure out what that phone call was really about.

Nicole shivered. Ryker thought that the man who’d broken into her home, who’d taken one of her chef knives, who had already killed three women, had struck again.

RYKER SAT ON HIS HAUNCHES and studied the victim’s position. She was sprawled across the concrete floor of the patio, the back of her nightgown and the concrete floor around her drenched in blood. Ryker followed the trail of blood with his eyes, back to the patio door. He’d check with CSI about the blood patterns later, but from what he could tell, she’d been stabbed in the back just about the time she’d reached the patio door. She’d made it outside before she collapsed.

Drip patterns down her sides and the blood around her body told him she hadn’t died right away. She’d bled out right here where she’d fallen.

He took a quick look around the patio. It was the neighbors on the west side who’d called 911. The apartment to the east had a privacy fence. Bill had already questioned the couple that lived there. Apparently, neither one had heard anything.

He bent down, trying to get a good look at the victim’s face. She was older than his previous victims. He wasn’t a good judge of age, but he figured she was in her late thirties at best. A frisson of doubt slithered through him. If this was the work of his serial killer, the man had stepped outside the normal actions expected of serial murderers—again. This victim’s age was an anomaly. Ryker rubbed the spot in the middle of his chest where the frisson of doubt had lodged.

What if this killing wasn’t connected?

Ryker studied the knife wound just inside her left shoulder blade. He lifted his arm and mimicked the motion that would have been necessary to make that wound. The killer had wielded the knife above his head. He wasn’t proficient with a knife as a weapon. A pro would more likely have kept his arm low, and stabbed her in the lower back—the kidneys.

Nope. He was certain his guy had used a weapon of convenience—again. If it was his guy.

Ryker sent a quick glance around the small patio. The weapon. Where was it? Every other time, the killer had left the weapon at the scene. Except for last year, when he’d escaped with Nicole’s knife.

Ryker studied the body again. It was conceivable that the weapon could be under her, but not likely. Not given the bleeding pattern. If she had fallen while running away from the killer who had just stabbed her, the knife couldn’t have ended up beneath her.

He touched the cut nightgown with a gloved finger. He couldn’t tell much about the knife wound because of the blood. But the cut in the gown was only about an inch long. It wasn’t a very big knife. The blade that made that cut in the nightgown had to be less than an inch wide.

An ominous thought occurred to him. The knife that had been stolen from Nicole wasn’t a big knife. He’d looked at her knife case the night of her near attack, but all he could remember was that the empty slot where the missing knife should have been stored wasn’t very long. He remembered looking at her knife case and feeling thankful that the man hadn’t taken one of the ominously long, thick-bladed ones.

Dr. David Miller, the new medical examiner who’d taken over when Hiram Crouch had retired the previous December, stepped through the door. “Ryker. Got another one?”

Ryker rose from his crouch. “Looks like it. How’s business?”

“It’s been slow. I reckon it’s picking up now.”

“I’ll leave her with you. I want to look around inside and check with Bill about what the neighbors said.”

Dave crouched down beside the victim. “Hey, sweetie,” he said. “Let’s see what you can tell me.”

“I need everything you can give me about the knife he used. We haven’t found it yet. I’ve got a feeling he took it with him.”

Dave nodded without looking up.

Ryker headed for the patio door, then turned back. “Dave? How old do you think she is?”

The medical examiner turned her head so he could see her face and neck. “Late thirties or early forties.”

Ryker nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He stepped through the door into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the blood spatter on the tile and the crime scene photographer who was taking photos of every inch of wall and floor.

“Don’t suppose you’ve found a weapon yet,” he said to Bill, who was writing something on a small pad.

Bill shook his head, and finished scribbling before he looked up. “Nope. Nothing.”

“That’s odd.”

“Only if the killer is your guy.”

Ryker gave a reluctant nod. “Anything missing from the kitchen?”

Bill shook his head, then pointed at a worn brown couch with his pen. “It looks like Ms. Terry was watching TV. May have fallen asleep on the couch. The killer probably saw her through the open window there.”

Ryker glanced at the window, then at the door facing, where wood was splintered. “And nobody heard him kick the door in?”

“Apparently not. Although, look at that lock. My nine-year-old nephew could break in here.”

Ryker glanced around. The crime scene photographer was standing in the doorway to the patio and a second crime scene investigator was lifting fingerprints from the front door. “Bill,” he said, leaning close to Bill’s ear, “what if he used the knife he stole from Nicole?”

“Hello, boys,” an obnoxiously cheery voice said.

Ryker whirled. It was Lon Hébert, a reporter for the local newspaper, the St. Tammany Parish Record. He cursed under his breath.

Bill wasn’t so circumspect. “What the hell are you doing here, Hébert? This is a crime scene. Take your ugly, scrawny ass out of here. Tom—” he called to one of the uniformed deputies.

“Aw, Bill. Give me a break. I need a big story. It’s been so quiet around here that I was about to run a piece on alligators being run over on the freeway.” Hébert laughed. “Delancey, talk to me.”

“How do you even know about this?” Bill demanded.

Hébert grinned. “It’s called a police scanner, Bill.”

“Get out of here,” Ryker said, his voice deadly quiet. “And make sure you clear anything—and I mean anything—with the sheriff’s office before you print it.”

Lon held up his hands. “Fine. Fine. I’ll call the deputy chief and see if I can get a statement.” He turned and left.

Ryker watched him leave. “You think he heard what I said?”

Bill shook his head. “No idea. I didn’t see him come in.”

“Well, what do you think? I think I need to look at matching Nicole’s missing knife with Jean Terry’s wound.”

Bill shrugged. “You could. But isn’t that quite a leap, even for you? Just because we haven’t found the weapon yet? You really are trying to connect this to your mysterious serial killer, aren’t you?”

“Come on, Bill. Think about it. Yesterday was October 21. He broke in and killed her. No sexual assault.” He looked around the room and spotted a purse, upturned on the kitchen counter. “He dumped her purse. Is anything missing?”

“Nope. Not even her cash.”

“That’s typical. Not even a pretense of a robbery.” Ryker’s pulse raced with excitement. It was tragic that another young woman was dead, but maybe now he could take this fourth murder to his chief and finally get him to link the cases and treat them as the work of one man—a serial killer.

THREE HOURS AFTER HE’D arrived at the scene of the crime, Ryker was in the St. Tammany Parish Crime Lab pacing back and forth.

“Wearing a hole in my floor is not going to make me go any faster.” Dr. Dave Miller was in scrubs, standing over the autopsy table, examining Jean Terry’s fatal wound.

Ryker hated the autopsy room. The previous M.E., Dr. Crouch, who was eighty if he was a day, had treated the victims like sides of beef. The fact that Ryker had known a woman who had ended up on Crouch’s table hadn’t helped.

Dave was the total opposite. Every move he made was kind and respectful. It made a big difference to Ryker, who had never learned to view a dead body as a separate thing from the person she had been.

“What can you tell me about her knife wound?”

Dave was peering through a large lighted magnifying glass. “Not much. I need to cast it, to get a truer representation of the shape and path of the blade. See this V?”

Ryker reluctantly moved closer to the table and looked through the magnifier. “That upside-down V? Yeah. I couldn’t see it earlier, because of all the blood. What would make that kind of wound?”

“Oh, it’s a knife all right. Single-edged. That’s a common pattern. It’s called forking. The blade entered her back here,” Dave said, pointing at the right side of the wound. “And exited here.” He shifted his finger to the left side.

“What do you mean?”

“She was most likely on her feet. Her attacker was behind her, chasing her.” Dave pushed the magnifier away and raised his arm, demonstrating. “He stabbed her with a downward motion. The blade entered between her shoulder blades, angling toward the right. He held on to the knife as she jerked and probably stumbled or fell. In any case, the blade exited at about a thirty-degree angle from where it entered.”

“That’s forking? I remember the term from Forensics, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wound like that.”

“How many stabbing deaths have you investigated?”

“Only one—two years ago. The weapon was a fireplace poker.”

“Messy.”

“No kidding. Especially after Crouch got done with

it.”

Dave didn’t comment. Another point in his favor. Ryker wanted to bite his tongue. It was never good practice to talk about a colleague, present or former.

“This upside-down V is typical of a stabbing,” Dave continued. “It’s unusual for a victim to remain still while being stabbed.”

“What are those marks on the edges of the cuts?”

“The knife’s guard. The attacker struck with force. He buried the blade up to the guard. It bruised the skin.”

“The guard? Is that like the hilt?”

“Yep. Hilts refer to swords, but it’s the same thing. It’s always good to have those marks on a wound like this. If I had a weapon to compare it to, that contusion could give us a match.” Dave pulled the magnifier down again and peered through it. “Now I need to concentrate.”

“Sure. I’ve got to write up my report. Let me know as soon as you know anything.”

“Definitely.”

As Ryker pushed open the door, Dave called out to him.

“Oh, Ryker, your victim had breast cancer.”

“Yeah?”

Dave nodded. “Double radical mastectomy, and evidence of radiation.”

“Is that relevant?”

“Hard to say. I’m curious to see if they got it all, and how much of the lymph nodes they got. I’ll order her medical records, and take a biopsy, just in case.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

Ryker headed to the precinct and wrote up everything he’d seen and done at the crime scene. Then, in a different document, he wrote his impressions of the murder, and how it fit his theory of a serial killer, from the date to his concern that the weapon used could be Nicole’s missing knife. He included Dave’s information about Jean Terry’s cancer, although he had no reason to think it had any bearing on her death.

Twice he was interrupted by phone calls. The first was from one of the deputies who’d run the kid in the other night, telling him that the boy was seventeen, had no priors, not even as a juvenile, but that he’d given them a tip that helped in a drug ring case they were trying to put together.

“Great,” Ryker had said. “Glad to help. Do me a favor and get your sergeant to tell my boss, will you?”

The deputy had laughed and said he’d try.

Then, before Ryker could get back to work, his twin brother, Reilly, called.

“Hey, old man.” Reilly’s nickname for Ryker referred to the fact that Ryker was older by seven minutes.

“Kid. What’s up?”

“I heard about the murder. Another notch on your serial killer’s belt, eh?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping this one will give me something concrete I can take to Mike.”

“Maybe so. Did you see Mom’s e-mail?”

“Nope. Been a little busy to follow the Delancey soap opera.”

“Well, it did ramble a bit, but the gist was reminding everybody about the anniversary barbecue.”

Ryker winced at Reilly’s implication. Their mother tended to ramble when she drank, whether talking in person, on the phone or via e-mail.

“I haven’t forgotten about the party.”

“Well, take a look at her message. She’s changing the date because Dad’s got to meet with his parole officer on their anniversary.”

Ryker cursed under his breath. How many ways could his dad’s skewed loyalty interfere with all their lives?

“I’ll check it,” he growled.

“So, you going to bring a date?”

“What do you think? If I can’t even check my mail, when do I find time to date?” Ryker tried to ignore the mental image of Nicole’s beautiful naked body that rose in his brain. “What about you?”

“Not only do I have no time, I have no prospects.”

“That’s sad, kid. Truly sad.”

“Yeah, well.” Reilly sent a few choice and colorful words across the airwaves.

“Same to you,” Ryker said, deliberately changing the subject from their dysfunctional family. “How’s SWAT?”

“Pretty slow right now. We’re doubling up on exercises and drills.”

“Good. See if you can learn how to aim better.” It was an old joke between them. Although they were identical twins, Reilly had inherited the sharpshooter gene. It was Ryker who’d had to work at his marksmanship.

“Right. Call me if you want me to take your handgun proficiency test for you.”

Ryker winced at the faint bitterness in his twin’s voice. Reilly had wanted the detective position that had been given to Ryker.

“Trust me,” Ryker said wryly. “You couldn’t shoot bad enough for them to believe you were me.”

The backhanded compliment earned a reluctant laugh from his brother. Ryker’s desk phone rang. “Hey, kid. I gotta go. Work calls.”

“Guess I won’t see you until the party, then. Bye.”

Ryker hung up his cell phone and picked up his desk phone’s handset.

It was Dave. “Ryker. I’ve got something for you.”

“I’ll be right there.” He sped over to the lab and ran to the autopsy room.

“Whoa!” Dave said as Ryker slammed open the door. “There’s no fire here.”

“Sorry. What’ve you got?”

“Take a look at this.” Dave pointed to a white elongated carving that lay on an exam table.

Ryker’s heart thumped when he saw it. It was the casting of the knife wound. Although the casting didn’t look like any knife Ryker had ever seen, he knew from the look on Dave’s face that he’d come to a conclusion about the knife that had been used to stab Jean Terry.

“Well?” Ryker said, not even trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“From the shape of the casting, and the appearance of the wound, I’d say the knife’s blade is around five and a half to six inches long. It has a curved return and a tapered bolster. I’d be willing to bet the blade is flexible, based on the shape of the wound.”

“Return? Bolster?”

Dave grinned. “Yeah. I suddenly developed a need to know a lot about knives. If you’re so sure you’ve got a serial killer on your hands, I want to make sure I don’t miss anything that might help you prove it.” He pulled up a diagram on his computer. “Here’s a breakdown of the parts of a knife. See there? The return is basically the end of the blade. The bolster is a collar that joins the blade with the handle.”

“So what does all that mean? Can you identify the knife?”

“If I had a knife, I could tell you how it compares to the knife that was used. I will say, in the short amount of time I’ve had to do research, I’ve concluded that the knife used to kill your victim was a boning knife.”

“A boning knife?”

Dave nodded. “Usually used by chefs to debone meat. The blade can be stiff or flexible. This one was flexible.”

Ryker’s pulse pounded in his head. “This could be it.” He clasped Dave’s shoulder and shook his hand. “This might be my break. If that wound was made with a chef’s knife, it could be the knife that he took from Nicole.”

“Nicole?”

“Nicole Beckham. Last year’s victim. She’s a chef. The killer was scared off by her roommate, but he got away with one of her knives. I don’t know which one.”