by Paula Graves
“Can we still work together? Because you know more about what happened to your sister than anyone. I need that insider’s viewpoint to make sense of all of this.”
She nodded. “We can work together. I’d like to take another look at your files. I think we need to start from scratch, look at everything we have without any preconceptions about what happened. Do you agree?”
“Yes.” He looked relieved.
“Okay. I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll figure out where and when to meet.” She gazed up at him, wishing she was the kind of woman who could bend a man to her will. Because right now, she couldn’t think of a thing she wanted more than for J. D. Cooper to kiss her.
But she wasn’t that kind of woman, and he didn’t kiss her. He just lifted his hand in a goodbye salute and walked up the drive to where his truck was parked.
She stood in the doorway, watching until his truck disappeared from view down the road. Then she locked up behind her, leaning back against the cool wood of the door.
If your heart gets broken this time, Becker, you have nobody to blame but yourself.
J.D.’S CELL PHONE RANG around eight-thirty the next morning. He’d been up three hours, despite a largely sleepless night, waiting for Natalie’s call.
But it was his brother Gabe on the phone. “The Millbridge police are investigating Dyson’s so-called suicide, but so far, everything’s a dead end. They assumed cyanide from his symptoms right before he expired, but the preliminary tox screen isn’t coming up with any of the usual suspects. Nobody at the jail will cop to seeing anything—guards nor inmates—and the jail’s video system’s a piece of unreliable crap, apparently.” Gabe sounded deeply frustrated. He had almost as big a stake in finding the alpha killer as J.D. did, since he still blamed himself for the murder.
“There’s been another killing down here,” J.D. told his brother.
“Like the rest of them?”
“At first glance, yeah.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” Gabe said.
“I’m not. There were signs of struggle this time.”
“Well, we know at least one of the victims here in Millbridge fought with the killer—remember the fingernails?” Gabe said. The victim Gabe himself had found at a Millbridge convenience store the month before had freshly clipped fingernails, leading police to believe the victim had scratched her attacker, who’d then taken care to remove her nails to get rid of any DNA evidence.
“He got rid of the fingernails to keep the cops from identifying him,” J.D. said. “But this time, he left a lamp lying on its side, maybe other signs of a struggle.”
“He didn’t cover his tracks?”
“Exactly.” J.D. glanced at the photographs spread across the motel room bedspread. “I’m looking back over the other crime-scene photos to make sure we didn’t miss something, but I’m not finding any other signs of a struggle. Which means even if the victims did fight back, the killer took pains to erase any evidence of it.”
“So why not this time?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it?” A knock on the door dragged J.D.’s attention away from the photos on the bed. He crossed to the door and looked through the security lens. A distorted image of Natalie gazed back at him. “Gotta go, Gabe. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up and opened the door.
Natalie’s expression was hard to read, but the box in her hand was emitting an amazing aroma of coffee and doughnuts, suggesting she was here on a peace mission, and she’d brought a tasty offering.
“I know I said I’d call first, but—” She stopped, sounding a little flustered. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“Actually, no. Is that coffee and doughnuts I smell?”
She managed a nervous smile. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure what kind you’d like, so I got a few different types—crullers and chocolate covered, and there’s a cream-filled doughnut that’s good enough to tempt a health food nut into sin.” She thrust the box at him.
“Come on in.” He led the way into the room and set the box on the small table by the window. He opened the top and found two covered cups and an assortment of six doughnuts. His stomach growled, making Natalie smile.
“I’m sorry about last night. I mean, I’m not sorry about kissing you, but I’m sorry it put you in such a bad position.”
He found her brash honesty appealing. She didn’t seem inclined to hide her feelings from him, whether they were blazing anger, simmering desire or nervous embarrassment. In most ways, she was nothing at all like Brenda had been, but like his late wife, she seemed to put great value on the truth.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”
“I’ve been embarrassed before. I’ll live.” She shot him another quick smile before turning her attention to the photographs spread out on the bed. “I see you’re already at work this morning.”
J.D. pulled out one of the coffees and opened the lid. Hot and black, just as he liked it. He took a sip, grimacing with satisfaction as the strong, hot coffee burned down his throat. “I wanted to see if we’d missed any signs of a struggle in previous crime scenes.”
“And?” She pulled her own coffee from the box.
“And nothing,” he admitted. He waved for her to sit in one of the two chairs flanking the small table and took his own seat. Grabbing a couple of napkins from the stack in the box, he fished a plain yeast doughnut out. It was fluffy and delicious. “Good doughnuts.”
“Margo makes them fresh on Saturday mornings. Just Saturdays—she says it’s too stressful to come up with that kind of culinary artwork every day.” Natalie took the chocolate-topped cream-filled doughnut and took a bite, licking the pale cream from her lips with the tip of her pink tongue. The resulting hunger rumbling through J.D. had nothing to do with food.
He took another sip of scalding coffee and concentrated on the manila folder he saw peeking out beneath the box of food. “What’s that?”
She followed his gaze. Her expression darkened. “Photos from my sister’s crime scene.”
Though his first instinct was to set the doughnut aside and see what was inside that folder, he could see how much Natalie dreaded opening it. He quelled his curiosity and sat a little longer, eating his doughnut in companionable silence.
Natalie picked up a napkin and blotted her lips, reminding J.D. of the second time he’d seen her, drinking whiskey at Millie’s. His lips curved. “I bet you went to charm school, didn’t you?”
She shot him a curious look. “Yes. Why?”
He shrugged. “You’re just such a contradiction—refined but earthy. Polite but forceful. Studious but instinctive.”
“Maybe I’m just plain mixed up,” she said with a wry smile.
“Who isn’t?” His phone rang, vibrating against his leg. He pulled it out and checked the caller. His son, Mike. He answered quickly. “Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”
“Just calling.” At thirteen, Mike’s voice was starting to change, reminding J.D. just how quickly his son’s childhood was passing by. He’d already missed so much of it. He should be at his in-law’s place, picking up his kid and taking him back home to Gossamer Ridge. They should be spending the day together on the lake, fishing and shooting the breeze, doing the kinds of things other fathers and sons did.
But Mike should also have his mother, and thanks to the bastard J.D. was trying to find, he never would. He tamped down his guilt one more time and schooled his voice so that none of his inner conflict came out in the tone. “What do you and your grandparents have planned for today?”
“Not sure yet—Gran’s baking this morning for some deal at church tomorrow, and she’s letting me lick the spoon, so I reckon I’ll be hanging here for a little while yet.” Mike laughed. “When are you getting here?”
“Soon,” J.D. answered, hating himself for the partial lie. “Don’t eat your grandparents out of house and home, you hear me?”
“Believe me, Dad, Gran’s not happy unless she’s s
tuffing something down my throat.”
J.D. heard his mother-in-law’s chuckle of protest, and his son’s laugh in response. His heart contracted. Thank God for the Teagues, and for his own parents back home in Gossamer Ridge. They’d made sure his children grew up loved and protected, even when he couldn’t be there. He wasn’t sure he could’ve gotten through the last twelve years without them. “Can I talk to your grandmother a moment?”
“Sure.” Mike passed the phone to his grandmother.
“Hi, J.D.” Her voice changed color. “What’s up?”
“Can you send Mike where he can’t hear?”
She put her hand over the phone, muting her voice, but he heard her tell Mike to go see what his grandfather was up to. A second later she came back on the line. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Everything’s okay,” he assured her. “But I don’t want Mike to know I’m here in town yet. He’ll have questions I’m not ready to answer.”
“Okay.” She lowered her voice. “Are you going to tell me what you’re really doing in Terrebonne this time?”
He glanced at Natalie. She was busy trying not to watch him, but he knew she heard every word.
“Soon. I should be able to tell you everything in a day or two.”
Lois released a soft sigh. “Should I worry?”
“No, you shouldn’t worry,” he said firmly, hating that she even had to ask. She shouldn’t have lost her daughter to a killer, shouldn’t be having to send her grandson from the room in order to talk to her son-in-law.
He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to tell her that her daughter’s killer wasn’t dead until the son of a bitch was in custody. But he’d seen the questions in Lois’s eyes at the party. Maybe if he told her a little more about his investigation into Carrie Gray’s murder, he could erase some of the worry from her eyes. It was the least he owed her.
“Tell Mike I love him and I’ll see him soon.” He hung up and set the phone on the table in front of him, looking up at Natalie. “I don’t know how much longer I can pretend Brenda’s murderer died in Mississippi two months ago.”
“They deserve to know the truth, even if it hurts.”
He pushed aside the box of doughnuts, his appetite gone. “I’m not sure I even know what the truth is.”
She put her hand over his, her fingers strong and warm. “So let’s find out what it is.”
He looked down at her hand, overwhelmed with the desire to turn his own hand over until they were palm to palm. Instead, he gently pulled his hand away.
A faint flush tinting her cheeks, she crossed to the bed to look at the photos. “Where do you want to start?
“At the beginning,” he said grimly. “With Brenda’s murder.”
NATALIE WATCHED J.D. flip through the photographs from his wife’s murder scene. As he gave Natalie a terse accounting of the events of that night twelve years ago, the only outward sign of reaction was a twitching muscle in his jaw. But she saw the simmering rage in his eyes each time he glanced her way. “Nobody connected Logan to the murder at the time because he continued to work for the company for a few weeks longer.”
“Cold-blooded bastard,” Natalie murmured.
“We haven’t found another murder in the area that fits the killer’s M.O. or signature.” J.D. laid the last photograph atop the neat stack he’d made as he told the story. “The next murder we’ve been able to connect to Brenda’s happened almost a year later in Saraland, Alabama.” He picked up a photograph and tossed it onto the bed next to where she sat. “Adele Phillips. Age twenty-six. She worked at an auto parts store owned by her uncle. She often worked late in the back office doing the books. She was getting her master’s degree in accounting at South Alabama.”
He slid another photo toward her. “Vivian Nettles. Age twenty-seven. Worked two jobs—part time at a Meridian, Mississippi, auto repair shop during the day, and a late-night janitorial job at the local skating rink where she was killed.”
One by one J.D. showed her the photos he had. At a glance, they were all similar—pretty dark-haired, dark-eyed women in their mid-to late twenties, fit but curvy. Her sister, Carrie, fit the profile almost perfectly, though at twenty-nine, she’d been at the top end of the profile, age-wise.
“Know what confuses me?” she asked after he’d passed the latest crime-scene photo to her.
He settled on the opposite edge of the bed, sitting so that he faced her. “What?”
“Carrie’s murder fits perfectly. No sign of a struggle. No evidence gathered that would help us in the least. But the latest one in Moss Crossing—it just feels different, you know?”
He picked up the Moss Crossing crime-scene photo. “I’ll be interested to hear what the coroner says about the stab wounds. These look different to me.”
She studied the photo more carefully. “They do. I just can’t put my finger on why.” She reached over and picked up the nearest photo. It was her sister’s murder scene. At a glance, Carrie almost seemed to be sleeping peacefully, as if she’d just lain down for a quick nap on the floor of the restaurant kitchen.
But the grievous wounds in her abdomen, staining her yellow blouse crimson, gave lie to the first impression.
She forced herself to look at the photo, study every inch of it, searching for that nebulous something that nagged at the back of her mind. What was different about the bodies?
She looked at the photograph of Lydia Randolph, the nurse practitioner killed in Moss Crossing. Same position of the body. Same bloodstained blouse—
Except it wasn’t the same.
“The stab wounds are different,” she said aloud.
J.D. scooted closer. “Where?”
She picked up the photo of Carrie and held it up next to the photo of Lydia Randolph. “Carrie has twelve stab wounds. Lydia Randolph has ten. And Lydia’s are smaller. Not as much blood. Not as much damage to the blouse—” Her voice stuck in her throat as the full weight of what her sister had gone through hit her like a gut punch.
J.D. didn’t seem to notice, his attention focused on the photos. He reached over and picked up several other photographs, comparing them. “All of the others had twelve stab wounds. Lots of tearing. It’s part of his signature. Twelve must have some significance to him.”
Natalie shuddered, remembering the way her sister’s body had looked, lying on the restaurant’s kitchen floor. There had been blood. Lots of blood. But there had been more. Internal tissue, ripped from inside her with the force of the stab wounds—
She pushed the image ruthlessly from her head before the nausea roiling in her gut got any worse.
“You okay?”
She looked up to find J.D. watching her, concern in his eyes. “I’m fine,” she murmured, willing herself to be so.
“Maybe we should take a break. This is a lot of nasty stuff to have to look at this early in the day—”
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped. Immediately she gave herself a mental kick, softening her voice to add, “Really. You’re right, it’s nasty stuff, but I’m a deputy and I can handle it.”
“I know you can. But I wouldn’t mind a break.”
“You don’t have much more time to work through this,” she murmured, remembering his earlier phone conversation with his son. “But maybe it would be a good idea to get out of here for a bit.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have something specific in mind?”
“I do,” she said, even though the mere thought of what she was about to suggest made her skin crawl and her blood run cold. “I think we need to go back to Annabelle’s.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You think the investigators missed something?”
“I don’t know.”
He gave her a look of pure sympathy. “You sure you want to go back there now?”
She wasn’t, but it had to be done. And since she was the person who’d been first on the scene the night it happened, she had the best chance of remembering whether or not something was out of place. “Yeah. Let’s go b
ack there.”
He held out his hand to her. She stared at his large hand for a moment, knowing what would happen if she touched him. Her whole body would turn into one raw nerve, alive with the energy that seemed to spark between them whenever her flesh met his.
Would that be such a bad thing?
Clenching her jaw against the inevitable sensation, she put her hand in his. He hauled her to her feet with as little effort as if she’d been a small child. And her whole body tingled, just as expected, even after he let go of her hand and started to put the photos on his bed back into their folder.
“I’ll take these with us,” he said, tucking the folder under his arm. “I’d like to compare the scene at Annabelle’s to the others in these photos.”
Before she could respond, there was a knock on the motel room door. On instinct, she reached into her purse and removed the Glock hidden inside. J.D. pulled his own pistol, a large two-toned SIG Sauer P250 that gave her a momentary twinge of weapon envy. He exchanged a quick look with her and moved to the window next to the door, glancing out.
With a start, he holstered his gun and shot her a bleak look.
“Who is it?” she asked as he crossed to the door, unlocked it and pulled it open.
In the doorway stood a dark-haired boy in his teens, glaring at J.D. with a look of pure fury. “Hi, Dad. Exactly when were you gonna tell me you were in town?”
Chapter Ten
Beneath the anger, J.D. recognized the hurt driving his son’s bitter sarcasm. “When I was ready,” he said, knowing a lie would only deteriorate the situation further. “How’d you get here?”
“Derek’s bike.” Mike waved toward a ten-speed parked in front of J.D.’s truck. “Who’s she?”
“I get that you’re pissed, but that’s no excuse for rudeness. This is Natalie Becker. She’s helping me with a project—”
“This is about Mom, isn’t it?”
J.D. glanced at Natalie, who stood in the middle of his room, her expression uncertain. “Natalie, my ill-mannered son, Mike.”