She Can Tell

by Melinda Leigh

  “Sarah fell down the stairs. I tried to catch her. Then Rachel burst in and attacked me. She’s been trying to turn Sarah against me for months, since she moved back here. She broke my nose.” Troy pounded his untethered fist on the bedrail. “You should be arresting her, not me! Wait ’til my father hears about the way I’ve been treated.”

  Troy leaned forward and Mike silently wished he’d take a swing at him. No such luck. Troy shifted back and abruptly found the bedrail fascinating.

  “When you get to the station, Officer Hale can fill out those forms for you. But at this time, the only person under arrest is you.”

  “My father will be calling you, Chief O’Connell.” Troy spat out the words with contempt, and Mike was perversely pleased to see, a little more blood. “And the mayor.”

  “No doubt.” A headache rapped on the back of Mike’s eyeballs. He turned to Ethan. “When he’s done here, take him in.”

  Mike left the room and drew his keys from his pocket. As he stepped out into the warm rain, his thoughts strayed to the inexplicable—and inconvenient—pull he’d felt toward Rachel Parker.

  He had to keep his interactions with her entirely professional. The clash between her and Troy wasn’t over, and any attraction to her was a conflict of interest with his job. Plus, he couldn’t ignore the uncanny resemblance she bore to the young woman who’d been murdered just a short while ago. The woman whose dead body Mike saw every night when he closed his eyes. The woman Mike had failed to save. Whatever the cause, the tight ball in the center of his chest told him Rachel would be like quicksand. Under her seemingly solid surface was a boggy pool of complexity. His instincts were screaming that once he waded in, he’d be mired neck-deep.

  Rachel turned her truck into her neighbor’s driveway. The porch light glowed through the rain like a beacon and summoned her aching body from the cab. She rapped lightly on the sidelight. Sarah’s little mutt, Bandit, popped up on the other side of the glass pane and yapped.

  “Hush.” A robe-clad Mrs. Holloway scooped the dog up in one arm as she opened the door to usher Rachel into the warm, dry foyer. “Come inside. You’re getting soaked.”

  Rachel slipped off her soggy canvas shoes and left them by the door.

  Over her clear eyes, Mrs. Holloway’s forehead crinkled like crepe paper as she reached up to cup Rachel’s jaw. Mrs. Holloway turned Rachel’s face to get a better look at the bruise and bandage on her cheek. “Does that hurt? Do you want some ice or aspirin?”

  “No, ma’am.” Rachel reached over to stroke the dog’s long silky ears. Liquid brown eyes stared at her from a masked face. “He hasn’t been any trouble, has he?” Bandit was slow to warm up to strangers, and he didn’t get his name from his markings alone.

  “No. He’s been a comfort to the girls.” Mrs. Holloway set the dog down on the floor. “Be a good boy. Go back to the girls.” She used the same firm voice that had kept fourth graders in line for decades. The dog trotted obediently down the hall. “How’s Sarah?”

  “They’re keeping her overnight, but she’ll be OK.” Rachel blinked back fresh tears. Fatigue had left her emotions raw. “If only I’d been there for her after Mom died. She wouldn’t have married Troy. But no, I was on the first plane back to Europe.” Too bad turning the clock back seven years wasn’t an option.

  “Honey, none of this is your fault.” Mrs. Holloway wrapped an arm around her and rubbed her back.

  “Sure it is. She eloped with him barely two months later.” Rachel let herself lean on the older woman.

  “Troy wasn’t so bad back then. Sarah seemed happy enough.”

  “She was only eighteen.”

  Mrs. Holloway sighed. “Rachel, your mother’s illness took a toll on everyone around her, including you.”

  Rachel shut down the childhood memories before they flooded her. She couldn’t handle them on a good night. She straightened, pulling out of the embrace. “Anyway, I thought I might as well come and get Bandit and the girls out of your hair.”

  “Absolutely not. You will not wake those children. Took me a full hour to get them calmed down enough to sleep. They’re exhausted. Leave them be.” Mrs. Holloway crossed her bony arms over her chest.

  “OK.” Rachel didn’t argue, even though the retired schoolteacher wasn’t even five feet tall, and that measurement included her sprayed-solid iron-gray curls. Rachel was too tired to debate anyway. Dawn was only a few hours away. It was a relief to have someone she trusted share the burden for a couple of hours. Here, she didn’t have to explain or pretend or hide behind a brave front. Her neighbor already knew all the dirty details from Rachel’s childhood.

  Mrs. Holloway cupped Rachel’s elbow and steered her into the living room. “Sit down, Rachel, before you fall down.”

  Rachel glanced at the dried blood on her jeans and hovered over the couch. “I’m filthy.”

  “You’re fine. Sit. I’ll make you a cup of chamomile tea.”

  The words were spoken with authority, and Rachel eased her butt down on Mrs. Holloway’s soft, flowered sofa. Her shoulder throbbed, and she felt every spot on her body where Troy had managed to land a blow. There were more than she remembered.

  “That’s not…” Rachel began, but Mrs. Holloway turned back and stared her down. “Tea would be great.” And warm. Rachel flexed her toes to restore blood flow. Fiery pinpricks spread through both feet.

  “You certainly didn’t need this after what happened yesterday,” Mrs. Holloway called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway to her kitchen. A few seconds later Rachel heard cabinet doors opening and closing, then the tap running.

  She pushed the thoughts of obscene threats and vandalism out of her mind and rested her head against the back of the sofa. All she wanted to do was close her eyes for few minutes. She doubted she’d sleep, but her eyelids felt like they weighed twenty pounds apiece.

  Her thoughts lingered on the police chief. In his early forties and comic-book-hero big, he wasn’t exactly handsome. His nose had seen a few fists, and he had a weirdly deformed ear. She wasn’t into pretty boys anyway, but she couldn’t believe the quiver in her stomach when his hand had so gently enveloped hers. What was her deal? In the middle of tonight’s horror and chaos, her brain decided to go all female?

  Still, it was hard to ignore O’Connell’s man-next-door appeal. His steady, imperturbable demeanor was more attractive than any Hollywood hunk. Even with all those huge muscles—he probably bench-pressed tractors—he’d been careful not to hurt her. The chief was in complete control over all that brawn. He hadn’t lost his cool with Troy. Nor had the cop gotten angry when she’d inadvertently kicked him in the shin. Rachel’s face heated. Troy was scum, but that didn’t excuse her behavior.

  Enough about Troy. Sarah had married the bastard and that was that. Rachel did not allow herself to criticize her little sister. Sarah’s bad choices were partially Rachel’s fault—and Rachel would be there to help deal with the consequences.

  Why couldn’t Sarah have found someone sweet? Like that black-haired young cop with the nice manners and chivalrous attitude.

  Marriage was an antiquated institution. Love and children created vulnerability. Both ways. Men could be equally damaged. Rachel’s father had certainly paid the price for falling for the wrong woman. Love had destroyed him.

  How could people trust others enough to open themselves up like that? This incident with Troy was far from over. With his daddy’s help, he’d be out of jail in no time. Once Troy was on the loose, he’d be looking for his wife and kids—and taking aim at the only person standing in his way—Rachel.

  Chapter Three

  “Here are the reports on the Mitchell case, Chief.”

  Mike yanked his gaze off his computer screen as a manila file hit his in-bin. “Thanks, Ethan. Did you include copies of Miss Parker’s previous vandalism complaints?”

  “It’s all in there. You need anything else before I take off?” Ethan yawned. “I could run by the Parker place and
get the statements signed.”

  Mike glanced at the clock. Eight o’clock already? “No. You better clock out. I’ll take care of it. Good work last night.”

  “OK. Pete’s already here for his shift.” Ethan ducked out into the Sunday-morning-quiet police station.

  A minute later, Mike’s second in command, Lt. Pete Winters, stuck his bulldog face through the doorway. “I’m headed out on patrol. Anything special?”

  “Yeah. Ride by the Lost Lake development every couple of hours.”

  “More vandalism?”

  “Yesterday somebody slashed some bulldozer tires.”

  “OK. Want me to check on the Parker woman?”

  Yes is what Mike should’ve said. “No. I’ll take care of it.”

  “OK.”

  After Pete left, Mike picked up the Parker file and flipped through it. Something felt off about the whole Mitchell-Parker mess, but he couldn’t nail it down. Maybe if he’d actually shut his eyes last night, his brain cells would be functioning. He turned his attention back to the article that had popped up in his Google search on Rachel Parker. Her background check had been clean, but Mike wanted details. He wanted to know everything about her. More than the facts in his reports. She was thirty-one, never married, and, until six months ago, was employed as a rider and horse trainer by Rising Star Farms. Several news articles had linked Rachel romantically to the stable’s owner, Blake Webb, a richer-than-rich blueblood with nothing better to do with his life than play with horses and sailboats.

  A tall shadow filled his office doorway. “Don’t you ever go home?”

  Sean Wilson, the ER doctor’s younger brother and Mike’s best friend since grade school, set a take-out bag and a cardboard drink tray on the desk.

  The smell of fresh coffee filled his nose, and Mike leaned toward the pair of steaming cups. “Sorry I had to cancel breakfast with you and Jack this morning. I have a man out on disability. I’m swamped.” In addition to the Mitchell domestic, a brawl at the local dive bar, three drunk drivers, and a burglary had rounded out the weekend.

  “You bailed on the last two poker games at Jack’s too. My cousin is starting to think you don’t like him.” Sean slumped into one of the chairs that faced Mike’s desk.

  In fact, Sean’s cousin, Jack, was a former cop and an all-around good guy. But Mike’s failure to catch a serial killer six weeks ago had almost cost Jack his fiancée. Mike couldn’t help but wonder if Jack blamed him as much as he blamed himself.

  “And we haven’t sparred in weeks,” Sean griped.

  “There are plenty of other guys at the gym. Maybe if you didn’t fight so dirty some of them would spar with you.”

  “Bunch of pussies. No such thing as rules in a real fight.” Sean handed Mike his coffee. “Never stopped you from taking me on.”

  “Criminals fight dirty too. I consider sparring with you good practice.” But Mike didn’t blame anyone for turning Sean down. The six-foot-four former Army Ranger turned security consultant sparred to keep his hand-to-hand combat skills sharp, not to score match points.

  “Now you’re comparing me to criminals?” Sean opened a small box of doughnuts out of the bag and offered it to Mike.

  “I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill you to follow a rule now and then.” He waved off the sugar-fest.

  “Yeah, I know. Your body’s a temple and all that crap.” Sean lifted a foil container out of the bag and handed it to Mike. “Western omelet and whole wheat toast.”

  “Thanks.” Mike lifted the lid. The smells of sautéed onions and peppers wafted out, and his empty stomach growled in approval.

  Sean gestured with a Boston cream. “Just like it wouldn’t kill you to break a rule occasionally. Admit it. You like the chance to let loose in the ring with me. You’re so uptight the rest of the time.”

  Since Mike had long ago accepted his uptightedness, he dug into the omelet. “Don’t you have a wife to bother this morning?”

  “Already did that.” Sean grinned. “Seriously, you can’t be the chief and a full-time patrol officer.”

  “Until Matt Dexter’s broken ankle heals, I’m exactly that. I don’t have enough bodies to cover shifts, and there’s no room in the budget for overtime.” Mike washed down a corner of toast with his coffee. “I don’t send officers into domestic disputes alone.”

  “Just make sure you take the same care with your own safety.” Sean shot him a pointed look. “And take an occasional day off.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Sleep isn’t exactly coming easy these days.” Not without nightmares anyway.

  “Mike, you can’t take responsibility for what happened. The FBI couldn’t find the Riverside Killer, and they were working that case a lot longer than you.”

  “I’m supposed to protect the people of this town. I failed.” One of them had died. An innocent young woman. The vision of her abused and bloated body would haunt him forever. Jack’s fiancée had also been abducted by the serial killer. Beth had barely survived, something Mike was reminded of every time he went to Jack’s house. Mike could’ve made the last poker game if he’d tried. “Doesn’t matter. It’s all over now. On to other crimes.”

  But there was no moving on for him. Though the Riverside Killer was dead, neither Mike nor the town would ever be the same. His quaint little hamlet bore the permanent stain of murder.

  Doubt lurked in Sean’s eyes, but he let it go. “Heard about that cluster at the Mitchell place last night. Troy’s such an asswipe. Is he really going to press charges against his sister-in-law?”

  “I have to wait until he sobers up to find out. When I called over to the jail this morning, he was painting the concrete with last night’s Wild Turkey.”

  “Nice.”

  “Probably the only thing that’ll keep him in jail today. No lawyer wants to put a puking defendant before a judge, even if the judge plays golf with the defendant’s daddy.”

  “They prefer their courtrooms hurl-free.”

  Mike finished the toast and pushed the container away. “Thanks for the food.”

  “Somebody has to take care of you. And on that note, we’re having a barbecue this afternoon and Amanda—”

  “Sean.” Mike cut him off. “I’m sorry. I just don’t have the time.”

  Sean sighed. “Amanda’s worried about you. She’d like to see you relax and get a real meal.”

  “Just had one.” Mike pressed a hand to his solar plexus, where it felt like the onions were bursting into flames.

  “You cannot work twenty-four-seven.”

  Mike’s gaze drifted to his computer screen and the Philadelphia Times article. From the back of a huge stallion, Rachel Parker squinted out from under a black riding cap. Those eyes were intense, even in black and white. The snug riding pants and tall black boots showcased that tight, athletic body. But getting turned on by the memory of it rubbing against him was totally inappropriate. Mike’s chair squeaked as he shifted his weight.

  The caption below the photo read, Local Rider Takes Silver at the Pan American Games. Miss Parker wasn’t just a horse trainer. She and her mount, Fleet O’ Feet, were former members of the US Equestrian Team. “Besides, I have to pay Sarah Mitchell’s sister a call today.”

  Sean reached over and swiveled Mike’s screen so he could see it. “That her?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sean gave him the once-over. “You should shower and shave first. She’s hot.”

  “This is not a date.” Mike rolled his eyes. “She’s involved in an active case. Totally off-limits. Plus, she’s the complicated type, and I’ve had enough of that kind of complication.”

  “You’re not exactly Mr. Simple. You have enough baggage to fill a fucking freighter.”

  Mike ignored Sean’s uncomfortably accurate comment. “Look, Vince Mitchell is pissed enough that I had the audacity to arrest Troy last night. He doesn’t care that his son knocked his wife down a flight of stairs and broke her arm. You can bet he’s already working on the rest of the town cou
ncil. I’m surprised the mayor hasn’t paid me a visit yet to convince me to make the charges magically disappear. They’re gonna be on my ass like a pair of tighty-whities. I need to walk the line here. One slipup and I’m history.”

  Mike pulled an economy-sized bottle of antacids from his drawer and shook out three.

  “Buying those things in bulk now?”

  “They were on sale.” Mike tossed them back and chewed, then used the last of his coffee to wash the chalky taste from his mouth.

  “You’re chronically overworked and underpaid. You look like crap. Tell the town council to kiss your Wonder-Bread-white ass. You know you always have a job in private security with me. I’ve only been trying to hire you for years.”

  “Look, I hate small-town politics, but I like my job. Or at least I did before Vince Mitchell got elected to council last year.” Mike’s exhaustion made his friend’s offer more tempting than usual, but he wasn’t ready to quit on his town. This job had pulled him out of a deep, dark place ten years ago, and the place he was headed now wasn’t exactly bright and cheery. Free time to ponder his failures would be the equivalent of swallowing gasoline and a lit match. “Besides, if I get fired there’ll be no one to look out for Sarah Mitchell and her sister or anyone else.”

  “Mike, working nonstop won’t keep another killer from finding this town.” As usual, his friend cut through the bullshit like a power saw. Sean’s eyes dropped to the papers on Mike’s desk. “Awfully thick file for one night.”

  “Somebody’s been hassling Rachel Parker for months. Three incidents of nasty graffiti.” Mike flipped through half a dozen reports. “Tires slit on heavy equipment. Damaged construction materials. Stolen materials.”

  Sean rounded the desk and looked over Mike’s shoulder. “Seems like a lot of work for Troy. He’s drunk most of the time and lazy all of the time.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Try as I might, I can’t believe that Troy orchestrated all this.”