“Kind of dangerous to go running alone at this time of night, isn’t it?”
“My neighborhood is safe.” She patted her ankle. “And as you can see, I don’t go out unprotected.” She stood and jogged down the stairs, stopping a few risers above him
He looked up at her. This close, he could see how tightly the fabric clung to her curves, firing his imagination. His heart gave a kick, and he regretted coming here. He should have known, in his exhausted state, that she would get to him even more.
He’d crack a few jokes then get out of there. “Guess I’m destined to find you all hot and sweaty from now on.”
She eyed him. “It’s late, Connor, and I’m not doing this whole witty banter thing with you.” She crossed her arms. “Either tell me why you’re here or take off.”
“Crabby much?”
“Goodnight, Connor.” She moved to push past him.
He stepped in front of her. “I was hoping you’d give me a rundown on Van Gogh.”
“It’s late. Read the case files.” She dug her keys from her pack and tried to maneuver around him.
“I plan to.” He widened his stance to make a solid wall in front of her. “But I thought we could get going on the investigation faster if you gave me a quick summary of what transpired in the nineties.”
Her eyes narrowed into tense little slits. “You’re really something, you know that? Expecting me to help you after your boss tossed me off the crime scene.”
“Oh, that? That was just Vance. He’s kind of a control freak, the same as Sulyard is.”
“I’d have to have been deaf and blind not to figure that out.” She eyed him. “But what I’m talking about is the fact that not a word came out of your or Sam’s mouth in our defense. Not a single word.”
“Hey, wait . . . what? You’re mad about that?”
She crossed her arms. “You’re darn right I am.”
“I’m sorry, Bex. Honest. But if I’d spoken up, it would have made things worse. Vance would have zoned in on you even more.”
“Right.”
“Think about it. If you questioned or contradicted Sulyard in front of PPB officers, what would he do?”
“Get mad and let me have it when we were alone.” She relaxed her arms. “Okay, fine. I see your point.”
“So you’ll help me?”
She stared right through him. “In the morning. Right now, I have somewhere I have to be.”
He gaped at her. “Now? Dressed like that?”
“I really have to go, Connor.”
His failure to move elicited another sigh from her. “I have to get to the hospital.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s my foster mother, Elise. She called. One of her kids, Frankie, was murdered tonight. She needs me now, so I didn’t take the time to change.”
“Murdered.” He let her pronouncement settle in. “In the Portland city limits?”
Becca shrugged. “Elise lives in the city and the hospital’s within the city limits, so likely.”
He dug out his phone and thumbed through it. “I didn’t get notification of a homicide.”
“She just called from the hospital. Maybe the responding patrol officer hasn’t requested a detective yet.”
“Maybe,” Connor said, his mind running through the possibilities. “You think this is related to Van Gogh?”
She shrugged again, but her eyes gave away her fear.
He wasn’t leaving her alone when she was feeling this way. And if the murder was related to Van Gogh, he had to know as soon as possible. “I’ll go to the hospital with you.”
Becca shook her head. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but you’ve got enough on your plate right now. If this ends up being connected to Van Gogh, I’ll give you a call.”
“Not happening,” he said firmly. “I’ll come with you. If the murder occurred in my jurisdiction and it’s not related to Van Gogh, then I’ll take Elise’s statement, and we’ll go from there. Okay?”
“Fine,” she said, but her tone told him otherwise. Apparently, spending any time with him was unpalatable.
He jingled his keys. “I’ll drive.”
Her chin jutted out. “I’ll drive my own car, and we can meet up at the hospital.”
Everything between them was always such a struggle. At the moment, he was tired of it, but if he was honest, he also liked the sparring. His brothers had all married easy-going women, but he found the challenge Becca presented interesting.
Just right now, he wished she’d give it up so they could get going. “I was hoping to talk to you about Van Gogh on the drive over.”
“Fine,” she grumbled.
He was starting to hate hearing that one word from her, but he’d take it as long as she didn’t drive off alone into the night.
He gestured for her to precede him, and then followed her to his truck. He opened the door for her and stepped back. She gave him a look that told him she could get herself settled, so he took the hint and jogged around the front of the truck and got in.
Once on the road, he glanced at her. She’d taken a moist wipe from her backpack and was running it over her face and neck. Her eyes were narrowed in worry, it seemed, not in anger or frustration as they had been with him. She was probably thinking about her foster mother. He’d been so focused on Van Gogh and the way Becca made him feel, he’d completely forgotten that Becca had a connection to the murdered girl.
“Tell me about Elise,” he said gently. “And Frankie.”
Becca gnawed on her bottom lip. “I thought you wanted to talk about Van Gogh.”
“I do, but it’d be good to get some background on your foster mother before I arrive.”
Becca appeared lost in thought for a moment, but then a tremulous smile broke free. “Elise’s a mom, through and through. You know, the one you’d always imagine you would have. The type who stayed home and was waiting for you each day after school with fresh-baked cookies. Who was there for every event in your life, cheering you on.”
“Sounds like my stepmom. Except when all of us kids would fight, which was often. There were four boys in the family.”
“You have three brothers?”
“Not only three brothers, but a sister, too. Poor Beth. She’s the youngest, and she had it rough. We picked on her all the time.” Happy family memories assaulted him for the first time in a long time, making him question all the reasons he’d left his past behind when he left home. “Of course, she had four brothers to defend her, too. And as we got older, we learned to appreciate her.”
“You sound like you’re close.”
“Close?” Were they? All of the others were tight, but him? Not so much anymore. Not that they wouldn’t want him to come around more often. “I suppose we’re as close as we can be, with me living three hours away.” He knew the words weren’t true as soon as they came out of his mouth.
He could make more of an effort to visit—to want to visit—but the same smothering feeling he always got when he thought about his family came rushing back. His mother had walked out when he was fifteen, and as the oldest, he’d had to keep things running while their dad worked. He’d taken on all the responsibility while his siblings got to live their lives, and he had to admit, he grew to resent them. As soon as he’d been free to leave, he’d done so.
“Where do they live?” Becca asked, completely oblivious to the civil war going on in his gut.
“My dad and stepmom own a retreat center in central Oregon. Everyone in the family works there except me.”
She swiveled to face him, fear gone from her eyes and sincere interest there instead. “Why did you leave?”
That was a loaded question. He wanted to tell her about his overwhelming childhood. About how his mother had bailed o
n them. But he didn’t know Becca well enough to trust her with that information. The only other person who knew about his past was Sam, and the bro code kept him from telling anyone. Even Kait. Connor would give Becca the story he told people. It was true after all.
“When I was a kid, there was a rash of burglaries and vandalism in the area,” he said, already feeling bad for not sharing the whole truth. “Our place was hit hard. I found the investigation fascinating and decided to be a detective right then and there. Since there wasn’t much chance for that in the boonies, I moved here.”
“Do you miss the country life?”
“Sometimes, but I really like what I do.” Guilt had him focusing on the road when what he really wanted was to look at her. “Of course, my family doesn’t understand why I’d rather hunt down lowlife murderers instead of being with them, but . . .” He shrugged. “I make it a point to get back there now and then. Especially to see my nieces and nephews.”
“Sounds like there are a few of them,” she said.
He detected longing in her tone. She was the last woman he took for wanting a house filled with kids. Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did.
“What’s the matter?” she said, her eyes lit with humor. “Can’t remember how many there are?”
“There’s eight. No, wait. Nine, now. My sister just had a girl.” He smiled at the memory of his four-week-old niece. “Everyone has a minimum of two kids, except me.”
“Hmm.” She tapped her lips, her very kissable lips. “No wife. No kids. You live in the city. You really are the black sheep of the family aren’t you?” She laughed. “Any prospects?” She acted like she was simply making small talk, but he heard the sincere question in her voice.
They’d spent far too much time talking about him. He wasn’t about to discuss why he was still single and would remain so for the foreseeable future.
“Not at the moment,” he replied, making sure she knew he was done talking.
He could feel her watching him, and he wanted to face her. To tell her something that would make her think he hadn’t clammed up, but he wasn’t going to reveal how his mother’s infidelity and abandonment had affected his ability to trust. Or his hideously bad breakup that had sealed the deal. No way was he going there. Not ever.
Chapter Ten
BECCA STEPPED INTO the ER entrance. The smell of disinfectant, mingled with an orange-tinged air freshener covering the stench of sickness and death, brought her feet to a stop. She hated hospitals. She’d hated them since her alcoholic mother had crashed their car, killing herself and nearly killing Becca. There were days in recovery when she’d wished she’d died, too. Even days after recovery. Like the day she’d arrived at her first foster home. The leering father, with his touchy-feely hands. She’d immediately asked for a transfer, but he’d made her life a nightmare until the paperwork went through.
The next home was better, but her new guardians had been only into fostering for the money and rarely gave her any attention. She was used to that. Her mother’s drinking binges had given Becca plenty of time on her own, but surprisingly, she missed her mother. More likely, she missed having someone to take care of and tend to, so she didn’t feel so utterly and completely alone.
So she’d sought a way to keep busy . . . by getting into trouble. She’d been kicked out of one foster home after another. And then she’d found Molly and they’d formed a bond of sisterhood. Van Gogh had ended all of that, and Becca had once again been alone.
Finally, she’d found Elise and it had all changed. Becca had known things were different the night she’d been arrested for underage drinking. She’d waited for Elise to toss her out, as every other foster mother had before that. But Elise had wrapped Becca in a hug and told her no matter what Becca did, she had a place in her home. Becca hadn’t believed it, but Elise had proved it, day after day, year after year, even when Becca didn’t deserve it.
Of course, if Elise had ever found out that Becca had left Molly behind, even Elise wouldn’t have loved her. But Becca wouldn’t dwell on that. She’d do as she’d always done, trying to make up for Molly’s loss by helping others in whatever way she could.
She approached the ER front desk and forced a calmness into her voice that she didn’t feel. She held out her FBI credentials to the woman manning the desk. “I’m looking for Elise Cobb. She’d be with a patient you admitted, a Francine Otto.”
Despite the woman’s smile, she looked harried and belligerent. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any information.”
“I’m her foster daughter. She’s expecting me.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. She clearly didn’t believe Becca, likely figuring this was a ploy to gain access to Elise.
Connor stepped up to the desk. “Now, come on, Sandy. That’s no way to treat my friend.” His voice was filled with humor, his smile easy-going.
“Connor.” Sandy returned his smile. “I didn’t see you there. Let me check this out for you.” She turned to her phone and dialed. Connor leaned against the desk, his ankles casually crossed, the smile still on his face.
Becca gritted her teeth. She hated it when law enforcement officers flirted to get their way. She’d never flirt, but she had to admit, it often succeeded. Especially for guys who looked like Connor. Or maybe she hated this because it was Connor, and that likely meant he was doing the same thing with her. Worse, she was falling for it.
Sandy hung up. “The nursing staff is going to tell Ms. Cobb you’re here and arrange for a room where you can meet.”
“How’s your slacker of a husband doing?” Connor asked, humor still in his tone.
Sandy sighed. “He’s still flat on his back.”
“Tell him to quit faking and get back to work. Our records department needs him.” Connor laughed, making the woman chuckle as well.
Becca often wished she could be so laid-back, but it had never been in her nature. Nina was a lot like Connor. Even Kait was more relaxed now that they’d arrested her sister’s killer. But Becca? Nah, she just couldn’t take the time. There were too many people needing her help.
A woman wearing a hospital wristband approached the desk, and Sandy sobered. “Go ahead and take a seat, Connor. I’ll let you know when you can go back.”
Becca crossed the room with Connor. A cold blast of air from the automatic door suddenly made Becca conscious of her attire. Or lack of it. She’d wanted to get to Elise as soon as possible, but still, she should have taken the time to change. If not because of the weather, or the lack of professionalism, but because Connor kept looking at her legs.
She leaned closer to him so no one could overhear. “Did you ID Jane Doe yet?”
He shook his head. “Fingerprints were a bust. Our team is searching every known database for missing girls in general, but so far, nothing.”
“What about the crime scene? Find anything there?”
He hesitated, then looked away and took a breath.
Irritation that only he could seem to bring out in her fired hot. “It’s that way, huh? You want me to share my stuff, but you hold yours close to the vest.”
“No . . . I . . .” He rubbed a hand over his face etched with fatigue, and she felt a moment of regret for pressuring him when he had so much on his plate already. “I don’t mind telling you because I know you’ll keep it confidential, but I hate for you to have to hear this. Oh, shoot, I’ll just come out and say it. Looks like we found three more bodies.”
She gasped and felt that all-encompassing panic return. “So it’s Van Gogh’s private burial ground.”
“Yes.” Connor’s one word held the weight of the horrible discovery.
“Three more,” she said in disbelief and thought about her movements at the crime scene today. Had she crossed over these bodies? Trampled on them. “Where are the bodies located?”
He frowned and hesitated again. She appreciated his consideration but she had to know. “Where, Connor?”
“Near the back of the clearing.” Reluctance slowed his words. “All three were neatly lined up and evenly spaced out, as if Van Gogh made an effort to carefully measure the spacing.”
Becca sighed out a relieved breath. She hadn’t moved any deeper into the clearing than Jane Doe, so she hadn’t stepped on their graves. Wait, graves? She’d been so worried about her movements, it took her a moment to fully process the fact that three more girls had lost their lives. It was official. Van Gogh had killed three more. Three more!
Or were these bodies from the nineties? Molly’s face came to mind. No. No. No. Not Molly.
“How long have these girls been buried?” She held her breath.
“We don’t know yet.”
“When will you know?” she asked, needing the answer but hating to hear it.
“Dr. Williams has to fully excavate the bodies. When I left, she was still working on the second girl and had a long way to go. She said it could take a few days, but suggested I stop by tomorrow for an update.”
“So we could be looking at his latest victims or the girls from the nineties.”
“Yes.”
“That means if he really killed eight girls, we could find three more bodies up there.”
“It’s not likely. At least not in the clearing. The cadaver dog didn’t light anywhere else. But we’ll check the area with ground-penetrating radar to be sure. I’ve got a strong hunch we’ve found girls numbered six through nine. Since the girl in the nineties was found elsewhere, it seems unlikely we’d locate the other two up there.”
Not find them? They had to. If they’d all been in the foster system, no one else was looking for them. Girls like her. Like Molly. Like Frankie.
Frankie. Becca had almost forgotten about Elise and Frankie. Becca looked at Sandy, hoping to get the green light to go in.
Sandy met Becca’s gaze and mouthed, “Soon.”
Becca nodded, but if Sandy didn’t give them the all-clear in a few minutes, Becca would prod her along.
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