by Debra Cowan
That unwelcome realization spurred a fresh bolt of resentment through her. She was simply missing their friendship. That was all.
"I'm ready, Detective Charm." Dallas's voice was harsher than she'd intended.
Carrie started, turning with a laugh. "I hate it when you sneak around."
Sam glanced over his shoulder, his gaze stripping over Dallas dismissively. He turned, his movements slow and deliberate as he nudged up the hem of his coat and slid one lean hand into his jeans pocket.
Dallas relaxed her clenched teeth and buttoned the two middle buttons on her coat, grinning at Carrie. "Sorry."
Sam opened the door, said goodbye to the other woman and walked to his truck parked in front of Carrie's house. Dallas hugged her friend, promised to call about lunch, and followed him.
The muscles in her right shoulder were already knotted against the prospect of spending all day and possibly the night in Sam's company. She didn't understand this giddy warmth, this ambivalence she felt toward Sam. But she was here for Valeria. She would do what she had to.
* * *
Sam didn't like the way Dallas was looking at him. He hadn't liked it back at Carrie's house and he didn't like it now. They rode in his truck, en route to the medical examiner's offices. He'd told Dallas they would stop there first and discuss Hutch's findings on another case.
Dallas kept sneaking glances at him. Her looks were curious, intense. And put him in mind of how he'd almost kissed her last night. He was glad he hadn't. And he wouldn't.
He could keep things strictly professional between them. All he had to do was focus on the leads and ignore the heated looks from her that were starting to linger. And ignore the intriguing scent of her perfume. And the way her long legs looked in those jeans, the way that cranberry sweater turned her eyes to pewter, polished her skin to magnolia velvet. Sure, no sweat.
Last night's rain had stopped, but the day was still gray. Dark clouds, looking swollen and ready to burst, scudded across the sky. The wind blew cold, but the temperature hovered above freezing so the streets were fine. By this afternoon, the streets could ice over. Or it could be sunny and beautiful.
Sam's skin prickled under the weight of Dallas's stare and he slanted a look at her. She glanced away, massaging the muscles of her right shoulder for the second time since they'd gotten into his truck. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her normally golden-toned skin was pale.
"You don't look like you got much sleep last night."
She covered a yawn. "I didn't. I got to Carrie's really late."
Why? Where had she gone? And with whom?
She pushed her hair back. "I went to the cemetery."
Sam snugged his shoulder more comfortably against the door, draping his left wrist over the steering wheel. "They close the gates at dusk."
"Yeah. I rousted the caretaker."
A reluctant grin curved Sam's lips. "I'm sure he appreciated that."
"Hmm?" This time, when she looked at him, the gleam of feminine interest was gone. Instead, she looked distracted. And worried. "I didn't know what to say to him. Brad, I mean."
Nodding with sympathetic understanding, he kept his gaze on the road. "I know what you mean."
"Do you think that means we're forgetting?" Her voice, hoarse and raw, was barely above a whisper. "I don't want to. I don't think we should."
"I'll never forget." Sam's vow sounded more like a curse. He didn't want to admit that he'd feared the same thing. And he would never let himself forget. Not what he'd done to Brad. Or what had happened that silent night with Dallas.
She half turned to face him, the weak sunlight silvering her tawny hair to platinum. "I thought a lot about you last night. Your guilt. The way you blame yourself for his death."
He clamped his jaw tight and hit the blinker with more force than necessary as he accelerated up the ramp and onto Broadway Extension south. The highway's name had been changed to Centennial Expressway a few years back when the state had lengthened the road, but Sam didn't know anyone who called it by the new name.
"Have you seen the department shrink about this, Sam?"
"Yes." His fist tightened around the steering wheel.
"It's not your fault—"
"You're not a shrink, Dallas," he said coldly. "And you weren't there when Brad died. I was. So, why don't you just leave it alone?"
"It bothers me that you blame yourself. You're not responsible, Sam. Not in any way."
He didn't want to talk about this with her. Exiting on Northeast Tenth, he ground to a stop at the light.
"I've really thought about this since you told me last night. Maybe it's just your way of holding on. Maybe you haven't let go of Brad at all. Or gotten over what happened."
"Oh, and you have?" he said through gritted teeth as they drove east to Stonewall.
Sadness darkened her eyes and her voice softened reflectively. "I don't know."
"You haven't. That's why you couldn't find anything to say to your husband at the cemetery last night!"
She might have flinched—he wasn't sure—but she angled her chin at him. "I'm not the one who's blaming myself for what happened to him. I'm only responsible for what—"
"Happened afterward?" Sam interrupted brutally, his chest aching.
She turned her head and looked out at the plain brown brick building where they had pulled up to park.
That fast, his anger turned to regret. He didn't want to fight with her. Hell, he didn't want to do anything with her, but for now he had to work with her. At least work was a safe topic. "I got a call last night, from another homicide detective. He has a strangulation case, too. About two weeks old."
Dallas's attention locked on him like a rifle on a target. "You mean, there are three of these cases?"
He nodded. "Lightsey's case had no marks on her neck. That's why I want to go down to the medical examiner's office. Ask him a couple of questions."
"Yeah."
"The two most recent murders happened about two weeks apart."
Dallas tapped a finger on the armrest. "What are the dates?"
Sam told her. "One was on a Saturday, one on a Friday. And the one I caught about two months ago was also on a Saturday."
"If it's the same guy, why wait so long between murders?"
"Maybe there's one we haven't found yet."
Dallas frowned. "These last two are thirteen days apart. Maybe that's the pattern."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe the killer is influenced by phases of the moon. I'll check it out."
Sam nodded. He didn't want to voice the bigger dread that had nagged him since receiving Lightsey's call, but he could tell by the sudden strain in Dallas's voice that she was thinking the same thing as he.
They walked into the M.E.'s offices and followed the receptionist's directions past the autopsy room to a fair-size conference room with built-in bookcases.
Hutch sat at a long rectangular table surrounded by a stack of files. The doctor pulled a pen out of the pocket of his white lab coat and scribbled something, frowning.
Sam knocked lightly on the open door.
Hutch looked up, flashing a tired smile as he motioned them inside. "Hey, Sam."
The man's eyes were red-rimmed, as if he'd been up all night. Dark blond whisker stubble shadowed his cheeks and jaw. The muted blues and grays of the walls and carpet gave the room a subdued air.
Sam nodded toward Dallas. "This is Marshal Kittridge. She's helping me out on the Hayes homicide."
Hutch rose and stretched across the oak-veneer table to extend his hand. "Nice to meet you, Marshal."
She shook his hand. "You, too."
"What can I do for you, Sam? I haven't finished with the Hayes woman yet."
"Actually, I had a question about another strangulation. One that came in about two weeks ago. A woman named Mindy Rush?"
"Ah, yes. I remember. I did rule her death as strangulation."
"I heard from Lightsey, the case detective, that she bad no m
arks on her neck."
Hutch frowned, then nodded. "That's right."
"Could you tell me what she was wearing?"
"Let's go look at that file." Hutch stepped around Dallas and led them down a short, carpeted corridor into a utilitarian office. Files covered the desk, but there looked to be some strange organization to the stacks. Filing cabinets lined one wall. A stuffed largemouth bass, mounted on a walnut plaque, hung on one wall.
Hutch walked to a metal file cabinet, dug through a drawer and came up with a dog-eared file. After leafing through it, he eased down onto the corner of his desk. "Yes, she was wearing a turtleneck sweater and corduroy slacks. Boots, underwear—"
"Would that sweater have been thick enough to prevent any marks, if she were strangled with the same weapon as Audrey Hayes or Hilary Poole?
Hutch glanced down at the file. "Yes. The sweater was heavy cable-knit. In fact, that's probably why it took her longer to die than the other two."
Beside him, Dallas tensed. Sam grimaced. "Any sign of rape?"
"There's been no forced sex on any of these victims. Typical strangulation with hemorrhaging behind the eyelids. The guy kills them, undresses them for sex, then dresses them again afterward."
"He has sex with them after they're dead, then puts their clothes back on?" Disgusted, Sam shot Dallas a look.
"Yeah," the medical examiner confirmed.
"That's sick," Dallas muttered.
"Thanks, Hutch," Sam said.
"Anything else I can do for you?"
"Any ideas about what kind of murder weapon we're looking for?"
"I'd say a chain, refined, small link."
Sam frowned. "Like a necklace?"
"Bigger, but not as thick as a tire chain."
Sam nodded. "What about trophies from his victims?"
"He's not taking hair, skin, fingernails or any other body part. Has he taken anything from the victims' homes?"
"Not that we can tell."
Sam shook the other man's hand. "Thanks. Just let me know when you finish with Hayes."
The medical examiner nodded, his gaze shifting to Dallas. "Nice to meet you, Marshal."
"Same here."
Hutch nodded, rising from his desk to walk them to the front door.
"I'm anxious to hear from you, Doc," Sam called as they stepped out into the crisp winter air.
"ASAP."
Dallas walked beside him, her boots scuffing on the asphalt-paved parking lot. Once in Sam's truck, she asked, "So, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Maybe." Sam still didn't want to admit it, not until he'd spoken to his commanding officer. He shook his head. "We'll—I'll—have to speak to Lieutenant Roberts. You'll have to wait in the car."
"Of course."
Her cool tone irritated him, which was just as well. Cool was exactly how things needed to be between them.
* * *
"A serial killer?" Carl Roberts sat down hard in his creaking leather chair.
It had taken Sam only an hour with his lieutenant. After he'd told the trim, graying man about the similarities between his two cases and Lightsey's, Lieutenant Roberts confirmed Sam's suspicions that Oklahoma City had a serial killer on the loose.
Not quite six feet tall, with a barrel chest and thick neck, Carl Roberts could be tough as nails with his detectives, and soft as marshmallow cream with a victim's family. He was known for the top priority he gave every case. Sam had liked him instantly, the first day he'd reported to Homicide.
The older man sat behind a paper-littered desk, his round sausage-like fingers drumming on the scarred wood. He shook his head, a mix of sadness and anger in his dark eyes. "After the bombing, Oklahoma City doesn't need something like this. Get busy and get me something. Yesterday."
"Yes, sir. What about Lightsey?"
"You take his case. You're the primary from now on. I want some answers before another murder happens." Roberts glanced down at the paperwork in front of him. "Says here in your report that the Hayes woman was a protected witness."
"Yes, sir."
"Have the marshals been notified?"
Up close and personal. "Yes, sir."
"Keep them informed."
"All right." Sam turned to go, breathing a sigh of relief that he hadn't had to lie to his boss.
"Rock's wife called me this morning. He's still down with that flu."
"Yeah, I spoke to her briefly, too." Sam had also spoken to his partner before picking up Dallas and the old guy was so miserably sick he couldn't even get out of bed.
Roberts steepled his index fingers under his chin. "My detectives are dropping like flies, but you can use any of the few I've got left. If you need them."
"I think I've got it covered right now." Sam wasn't about to tell his lieutenant that he had a marshal riding with him, but with Dallas's help, maybe he could find this killer before another murder occurred. If the killer stayed true to form, they had only eleven days.
He picked up the manila envelope holding crime-scene photos of his three victims, gave his captain a casual salute and walked out. Information on the murders had already been sent to VICAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—but so far they'd had no reports of similar killings across the country.
The division secretary promised to add the latest report about Valeria's killing to the Internet site they'd established to advise other law-enforcement agencies about the murders and to solicit any helpful information.
Once in the truck with Dallas, he tossed the envelope to her. "We've got three cases right now. I want to call the surrounding areas and see if we find any more."
He didn't miss the wary relief on her face when he joined her and realized that she hadn't expected him to return. He reflected with some amusement that he hadn't even considered cutting out on her.
As Sam drove to a service station and pulled over out of the way of the gas pumps, she opened the manila envelope. She sat quietly, flipping through the pictures while he used his cell phone to call the police departments in Yukon, the Village and Bethany.
His hope that only three murders had occurred was dashed when he spoke to the police in Edmond. They'd had a strangulation about six weeks ago. That fell into their pattern of every two weeks. Sam asked if he could come look at their crime-scene photos and Dallas shot him a sharp look, sliding the photographs slowly back into the envelope.
"Another one?" she asked quietly, her gaze fastened intently on his face.
"Yeah. Her name's Patty Watson." He started the truck, his blood humming. He told himself it was because of what he'd learned, but he knew it had more to do with the woman sitting beside him.
Less than thirty minutes later, he was inside the Edmond PD with Detective Rick Groom, looking at photos of a woman with marks on her neck identical to the ones on two of his homicides. Dallas cooled her heels in the truck. He knew it irked her that she couldn't come inside, but there wasn't any way around it. She knew these cops would clam up with any information they knew if she showed her face. The U.S. Marshals Service didn't investigate homicides. Period.
The Edmond detective gave a copy of the crime-scene photos to Sam, then he and Dallas spent the afternoon interviewing people in the apartment complex where Patty Watson had lived. They also checked out a local bar near the highway, The Watering Hole, where Patty had been seen on the night of her murder. No one at the bar could identify any of the victims except her.
Sam stayed focused, but he also noticed Dallas as they questioned the bartender and current patrons. She was good at asking questions. She had a way of being comfortable with herself that made other people comfortable. As tough as she was, she could come across well, and as quite nonthreatening.
She followed Sam's lead, kept her questions short and succinct unless something further was needed. Her attention seemed to be centered on the case only. Still, he felt her … interest.
She wasn't staring all dewy-eyed at him. Inside the bar, she was professional. Aloof. Yet, he felt an
indefinable energy pulsing from her. Between them. Disgusted with himself, he decided he must have the most colossal ego in the world. He worked hard for the rest of the afternoon to keep his thoughts on the case.
They'd turned up nothing new when he pulled into Carrie's driveway. Dallas's theory about the murders being influenced by phases of the moon hadn't panned out, either. He glanced at his watch and saw it was after five. He had about an hour to get home, shower and change for his cousin's bachelor party.
He put the truck in Park and phoned Lieutenant Roberts to tell him about the fourth victim he'd discovered.
"What did he say?" Dallas asked when Sam hung up.
"'Good work.' And I'd better find a suspect fast." He grinned, tired, but pleased that he and Dallas had managed to spend the entire day working—especially after the way the morning had started.
He hadn't wanted to have to dodge questions and queries about Brad all day. And she hadn't brought up the subject again. He'd managed to mostly ignore her frequent glances, but he'd been very aware of her constantly studying him, as if she wanted to crawl inside his skull.
Tension knotted his shoulders and fatigue settled deep in his bones.
She still looked tired, too, but there was a light in her eyes, an energy that fed on the challenge of finding this killer.
"One common thread seems to be country-western bars," he said. "Tomorrow, we'll start checking out the ones we haven't hit and see if anyone recognizes one or more of the victims."
The approaching dusk shadowed her high cheekbones, softened her stubborn jaw. Dallas nodded, her gaze never leaving his face. "I need to go to Atlanta tomorrow."
"Why?"
"Someone needs to inform Valeria's husband that she's dead."
"Can't the other marshal on the case do that?"
"I know Petey, and I've made arrangements to tell him."
"You can call the prison chaplain."
She shook her head. "I might be able to find out something helpful if I tell Petey in person."
"You can't still think it's a Mob thing? That the guy ordered a hit on her?"
"I just want to be thorough."
At her husky undertone, heat inched under his skin and Sam shifted in his seat, swiping a hand across his burning eyes. "Well, then I'm going, too."