She entered the office and smiled at the woman Cole had introduced to her the night before. “Hi, Linda, is Sheriff Caldwell in?”
“I’m Lana, Linda’s twin sister. She works nights and I work days. And you are?” She raised one of her dark eyebrows.
“Special Agent Amberly Nightsong.”
“Is Sheriff Caldwell expecting you?” There was an obvious protective tone in her voice.
“I’m not sure if he is or not, but I’m here,” Amberly replied.
“I’ll see if he’s available.” She picked up the phone and swirled her chair so that her back was to Amberly. She whispered for a moment and then whirled back around and hung up the phone. “He’s in his office. You can go on in.”
Amberly walked through the gate that divided the public area from the more private space and headed directly to Cole’s office. She knocked and heard his gruff response. She opened the door to find him seated behind his desk, a scowl doing nothing to detract from his handsomeness.
“I didn’t expect to see you here today,” he said.
“Why not? This is an active case and I intend to be here every day until you have the killer in jail.” She closed the office door and took a seat in the chair across from him. “Granny Nightsong would take a look at your expression right now and say that the grouch bird bit you on your butt while you slept last night.”
He stared at her in surprise. “And Granny Nightsong is…”
“My grandmother. She raised me from the time I was three until she died four years ago.” She’d accomplished what she’d intended: his scowl was gone, at least for the moment.
“That’s right, you mentioned her before.”
“So, what have you learned since I left here yesterday?” she asked.
“I’ve been back to the crime scene to see if anything was missed but found nothing. There is a kill site somewhere, but we have no idea where it might be. My deputies have been pounding the streets interviewing Barbara’s friends and family members. I’ve been going over the interviews as they bring them back to me.”
“Anything specific jump out at you?” she asked.
He shook his head and leaned back in his black leather chair. “Nothing. It’s just like the other two. Method of death was five stab wounds to the chest. According to the coroner who did the autopsy last night, the wounds were made with a six-inch straight blade and were in a downward motion, indicating that the killer was taller than the victims.”
“Probably male,” she replied.
“That’s definitely the path I’m pursuing. Not only is there a height difference that would indicate a male killer, but it also takes a tremendous amount of strength to stab a chest as deeply as these victims were stabbed. She also had Taser marks and was bound at her wrists and ankles at some point before her death.”
“After studying the files, I have a few more thoughts to add to the mix,” she said.
He sat forward. In the small office, she could smell the scent of his cologne, a pleasant woodsy scent that fired her feminine hormones. His eyes were the blue of still waters, deep and fathomless, and his intense stare made her slightly uncomfortable.
“First of all, the killer obviously wants attention. He makes no attempt to hide his kills but rather displays them in public places. If I were you, I’d try to control the information any media outlet is getting. He’ll feed on anything that’s about the murders.”
“I’d already thought about that, but in this day and age, it’s fairly difficult to control the flow of information about anything,” he replied, his frown threatening to return.
“The usual profile is that he’s probably between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He’s probably a Caucasian, although I’ll admit I’m not ruling out that it could be somebody of Native American descent.”
“Is that why you were chosen for this particular assignment?”
She looked at him in surprise. To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t considered it before this moment. “Maybe,” she admitted. “I suppose it makes sense that the director would utilize me if he thought there was any kind of Native American overtones to the crimes.”
“But except for the dream catchers, there aren’t any other overtones,” he replied.
“At least none that we’ve initially seen so far,” she replied and then smiled. “I try to keep all my options open this early in an investigation.” She crossed a leg and leaned forward. “And tell me, Sheriff Cole, you aren’t a local here, right?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Your investigative skills are too sharp, your reports too well written for a man who’s spent his entire career in a small town.”
“I grew up here and then left to go to college in St. Louis. Once I graduated, I joined the police force there and within two years had worked myself to detective.”
That made sense, and she patted herself on the back for recognizing that he was more than a small-town sheriff, that he’d had his real training on the mean streets of St. Louis. “So, what brought you back here?” she asked, curious.
His blue eyes deepened in hue, becoming the haunting color of midnight. “I was working a murder case, a triple homicide. The FBI had been called in for some assistance, and of course, once they got involved, they completely took over the case.”
He hesitated a moment and drew in a long, deep breath. “For some reason, the killer focused in on me personally. He managed to kidnap my wife.”
Although his words were delivered in a flat, emotionless tone, Amberly sensed a wealth of pain beneath the words, a pain too great for expression. She felt a tightening in her chest as she recognized his story probably didn’t have a happy ending.
“The killer, Jeb Wilson, held her in an abandoned house for two days. We finally managed to find the place and had it surrounded. I had found a way in through a broken window in the basement, but the FBI refused to let me go in. They had decisions to make, red tape to cut or whatever, and so the rescue process was delayed by twenty minutes. When we finally got inside, my wife was dead, but her body was still warm. She’d been killed within minutes of us getting inside. As far as I’m concerned, the FBI was as responsible for her death as Jeb Wilson.”
DESPITE THE FACT THAT EIGHT long years had passed, the agony of that moment, of finding his wife dead, had never eased, had never lessened. And there had always been a part of him that blamed the FBI agents for not having the capability of moving fast enough when his wife’s life had hung in the balance.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, obviously aware that her words of consolation meant nothing. “You know, we don’t always get it right.”
Surprisingly, these words, the knowledge that she knew the agency she worked for sometimes screwed up, somewhat satisfied him. “Well, I don’t intend to screw up these cases,” he said. “The families of these women have a right to know what happened to them and why.”
“The why isn’t obvious yet,” she said, a tiny frown dancing across the center of her forehead. “I’d like to see the reports and interviews your deputies have gathered together since I left last night. We need to somehow find a common denominator among these women. That would be the first step in identifying a possible motive and suspect. And we need to do it fast. There were four weeks between his first kill and his second and only two weeks between the second and third. We have no idea how quickly his time line is escalating.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said dryly. He got up from his desk, finding the small office stifling with her scent wafting in the air and her presence far too close to his desk. “Why don’t we move to the conference room? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Absolutely. My belief is you can’t have enough coffee, and you can’t have enough red licorice.” He looked at her in surprise. “Changed the nicotine habit to a licorice habit years ago and have yet to kick the licorice addiction.”
“Personally, I’m a black-licorice kind of guy,” he replied, as if he needed to remind her, assure
himself of how different they were.
They stepped out of his office, and as she headed down the hall to the conference room, he went into a break room that held a round table, a minifridge and a coffeepot.
As he poured the coffee into two foam cups, an edge of irritation swept through him. He’d told her too much about himself. He didn’t want her to know his personal information, and he certainly didn’t want to know hers, but he’d spilled his guts to her, and he wasn’t sure why.
He had three murders to solve, and he couldn’t allow his head to get muddied with the evocative scent of her, the intelligent depths of her beautiful eyes.
She had a family, she was here to help him solve murders and not to awaken feelings that had been dead for eight years, feelings he never wanted to experience again.
By the time he walked into the conference room, he felt as if he was once again under control. He placed a cup of coffee in front of her at the table. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I brought some sugar packets along.”
“Black is fine,” she replied. “Did you know the victims personally?”
He took the chair next to hers so they were both looking at the bulletin board. “Mystic Lake is a small town. I know most everyone here personally.”
“Tell me about the victims, information that wasn’t in the official reports. What kind of women were they? What did they like to do in their spare time?”
He knew what she was attempting to do—she was hoping to find a connection between the three women, a connection that might lead them to the killer, a connection he had yet to make.
“First victim, Gretchen Johnson, worked as a bartender at a place at the edge of town called Bledsoe’s. She was tough, had been around the block a few times and lived in an apartment behind the bar. Mary Mathis was a hairdresser at the beauty shop, lived at home with her parents and was dating Craig Brown at the time of her death,” he began. “She liked to gossip, loved to shop and seemed well liked by everyone.”
“Either of the other two victims go to that beauty shop?” she asked.
“According to the owner of the salon, neither Gretchen nor Barbara got their hair done there.”
“So, we can mark that off as a potential connection for the victims.”
He nodded, wishing he’d chosen the other side of the table to sit, where he wouldn’t be so close to her. She wore no wedding ring, although he supposed there were plenty of married women around who didn’t wear a ring.
He frowned and refocused. “I’ve tried to connect their lives, but these three women didn’t know each other well. They didn’t socialize together, they weren’t involved in the same activities and hobbies. Mary was a chatty hairdresser, Barbara was a shy teacher’s aide and Gretchen was a bartender at a rough-and-tumble place on the north edge of town. I can’t find where their lives intersected.”
“If these are just random victims, then it’s going to make our job that much more difficult,” she replied as she stared at the board.
Our job.
She’d already taken half possession of the crime. He tried to be angry about it, but the truth of the matter was he wanted this killer caught before he killed again, and if it took Agent Amberly Nightsong’s help to accomplish that, then he’d accept it. The stakes were too high to get into a territorial dispute.
“They might be random, but they have their approximate ages in common. However, Mary had light brown hair, Gretchen was dark haired and, as you know, Barbara was a blonde. So, at this point, we don’t know that he has a specific type of woman, other than that they were all around the same age.”
She pulled her braid over the front of her shoulder and toyed with the end of it, a gesture he found ridiculously sensual, as he could imagine the spill of that thick, shiny hair across his bare chest.
He jumped out of his chair, nearly upending his cup of coffee in the process. “I need to get out on the streets and check in with some of the townspeople. You’re welcome to stay in here as long as you want.”
“I’d much prefer to go with you,” she said as she also rose from the table. She grabbed her purse, pulled the strap over her shoulder and then looked at him expectantly.
He’d be a total tool to insist she stay here. Besides, he had to stop fighting the fact that, at least for now, she was part of his team.
“Suit yourself,” he replied. “I usually walk Main Street about this time of day. It’s more important than ever this morning. Everyone will want to give me their take on the murder, and somewhere in the minutia of their gossip, I might glean a clue.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed. “And maybe by the time we get back here, your deputies will have some more interviews for us to go over.”
“I’ve got a meeting set up with everyone at one this afternoon so we can sort through all the information that’s been gathered,” he replied.
They stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, and Cole felt the tension that had ridden his shoulders since she’d first walked into his office finally begin to ease.
He’d worked most of the night, making notification to Barbara’s family, seeking out potential witnesses and then studying the photos that had been taken at the scene.
Maybe it was because he was tired that he seemed so acutely aware of Amberly, not just as an FBI agent but as a beautiful woman. As he drew in a lungful of fresh air, he centered himself, pulling his mind from her and instead focusing on connecting with the people he served and trying to gain any information that might help him catch the killer who had struck not just once, but three times.
The sheriff’s office was located smack-dab in the middle of the main drag of the small town. It was just before ten o’clock, and the stores were preparing to open.
He’d come back to Mystic Lake to escape his pain, and he’d found a home among good people who seemed to genuinely care about each other.
“It’s a nice town,” she observed after they’d walked a little ways.
“You hadn’t been here before yesterday?” he asked.
“Never, although I’ve heard about the cool antique and craft shops. Some of my friends have gotten terrific stuff from here at great prices.”
“And you aren’t an antique bargain hunter?” He slid her a quick sideways glance.
“It seems like for the last four years I’ve been putting together a house where the most important room’s décor has gone from dinosaurs to stars and planets and now to all things law enforcement. My living room is still half-done, my bedroom has nothing more than a bed and a dresser, but Max has the room that every six-year-old boy dreams about.”
“What about your husband?” He couldn’t help himself. He had to ask.
“Ex-husband. John is an artist. He does quite well painting Western pictures that sell for obscene amounts of money. He lives close to me, and we’ve remained friends, hoping that the divorce won’t leave too many scars on Max.”
“John Merriweather?”
She looked at him in surprise. “You know his work?”
He nodded. “I like his work. I just can’t afford it.” He paused as Bill Walton, who owned an old-fashioned barbershop, stepped outside his shop’s door and motioned to him.
“’Morning, Bill,” he said to the thin, middle-aged man with a glorious mane of golden hair.
“Sheriff… Ma’am.” His gaze lingered a moment on Amberly and then snapped back to Cole.
“Heard about Barbara Tillman. You got a suspect in these murders yet?”
“Yeah, and you’re right on the top of the list,” Cole said wryly.
Bill snorted. “Right. As if Erin would ever let me out at night to wander around for anything, and I guess by your answer that you don’t have anyone on the suspect list.” His gaze slid back to Amberly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He held out his hand. “Bill Walton, the one and only barber in town.”
“Amberly Nightsong,” she replied as she shook his hand and then released it.
“Amberly is with
the FBI. She’s helping me with the case,” Cole said.
“Lucky you,” Bill exclaimed. “Getting to hang around with a gorgeous woman all day. All I get is old men with hairy heads and ears.”
Amberly smiled. “I’m just here to help Sheriff Caldwell solve the crimes.”
Cole noted that her cheeks held a heightened color as if the compliment had embarrassed her. That single fact made her more human, and he felt a bit more of the tension around his shoulders slip away.
They moved on from the barbershop, talking to people and shopkeepers they met along the way. The topic of conversation was always the murder the night before.
Cole listened to their impressions and theories about the murders—and everyone had their own theory.
By the time they’d finished their walk down Main, it was close to noon. “I usually eat lunch at the café,” he said and pointed down the street to a red awning. “Want to join me?”
“Sure. To be honest, I’m running strictly on coffee this morning and could definitely use something more substantial.”
Within minutes, they were seated at a booth in the busy café, waiting for their orders to arrive. “I especially like the theory that it is space aliens coming into town to commit the murders and hang the dream catchers,” she said, repeating what Wilma Townsend had said as they’d stopped at her craft store.
Cole smiled. “Every town has a resident kook, and Wilma is ours.” His smile lasted only a moment. “What bothers me is that it’s possible we spoke to the killer this morning, that he greeted us with a smile on his face.”
“It’s also possible he isn’t a local,” she replied. “You get a lot of transient traffic through town because of the unique shops and restaurants.” He tried not to notice how the sunshine drifting through the window caught and gleamed on her hair. “We often find that the first victim holds most of the clues as to what drives the perp. You mentioned that Gretchen Johnson had a boyfriend?”
“Jeff Maynard. A hothead with a nasty reputation. They worked together at the bar, and the night of Gretchen’s death, had a public fight before leaving work. I was so sure he was my man, but several of his friends swear that they all left work together and played poker until near dawn.”
Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake Page 3