ONE SILENT NIGHT

by Debra Cowan

  He needed to talk to his brother.

  * * *

  "How's my favorite girl?" Sitting on Mace's couch, Sam cuddled his nine-month-old niece.

  Her wide blue eyes crinkled as she grabbed at his nose. He chuckled, blowing air kisses on her bare belly. She gurgled and fisted two chubby hands in his hair.

  "Yeow!" he yelped, then laughed. Mace's daughter was already a heartbreaker with her dark hair, the china-fair skin she'd inherited from her mother, and those blue Garrett eyes.

  Sam had arrived just after bath time. Ashley, freshly diapered and smelling sweet, had crowed upon seeing him. She had him wrapped around her little finger and he loved it. He gave her a piggyback ride until she was breathless and bounced her on his knee until she bubbled with laughter.

  Finally Devon came in with the baby's pajamas and Sam handed her over.

  "Tell Uncle Sam 'Night-night.'" Devon held Ashley up and the baby planted a slobbery kiss on his cheek. His heart tilted.

  Mace reached for his daughter. "Ready for Daddy to put you to bed?"

  "Why don't you visit with your brother?" Devon said.

  Mace glanced over. "All right." He kissed Ashley. "I'll be back to tuck you in later, sweetheart."

  Resting her head on Devon's shoulder, she gave a toothy grin. The two of them disappeared down the hall.

  "You're gonna have to beat the boys off with a stick," Sam said.

  "I'm locking her in her room until she's thirty," Mace replied, taking a seat in the recliner near the end of the couch where Sam sat. "So, what's up? And don't tell me it's the case."

  Now that he was here, Sam didn't know how to start. He rolled his shoulders against the tension knotting them. "It's Dallas. We've, uh— Something's happened."

  Mace arched an eyebrow. "As in sex?"

  Sam shoved a hand through his hair. "Yes, among other things."

  "And you want to talk to me about this?" Laughter traced his brother's voice. "How about a beer?"

  "No."

  "What's the problem? If you've slept with her, I assume she was willing."

  "It's not that."

  Mace's smile faded and his blue gaze sharpened.

  Sam scrubbed a hand across his face and took a deep breath. "I've always wanted her, you know. From the first time I met her. Brad and I had just partnered up and he kept going on and on about Dallas, telling me I had to meet her." He paused, recalling the instant connection he'd felt with her, the gut punch of awareness when he'd walked into Brad's house and come face-to-face with her for the first time. "I couldn't believe it. No woman had ever hit me so fast and hard. Certainly not another man's wife."

  "She's nobody's wife now, Sam," Mace gently reminded.

  "I know that. I do." He squeezed his eyes shut.

  "It's Brad." Mace's quiet observation brought Sam's gaze up. "Your sense of responsibility for what happened in that warehouse is tied to Dallas."

  He nodded, relieved that his brother understood, but shifting uneasily anyway. He considered telling his brother about that night a year and a half ago, and how they'd parted, but felt that should remain between him and Dallas.

  Clenching a fist, he surged up from the couch and stalked across the room to the fireplace. "Despite her being the wife of my partner, my best friend, I never stopped wanting her. I tried not to let on, but—" He turned toward his brother, agony pinching his gut. "Brad never knew how I felt. I'm sure of that. But did I want her so badly that I let him down? Was there some part of me that might've been—should've been—alerted to those perps in the warehouse?"

  "Hey." Mace rose from his chair and came toward Sam, hard-earned understanding glittering in his eyes. "You can't play this game. You're not to blame. It could just as easily have been your grave in that cemetery."

  "That's what Dallas says," he said grimly.

  After a long pause, Mace fired a question at him. "Are you glad Brad's dead?"

  "No!" Sam jumped as if someone had laid a whip to his bare back.

  "Did you wish him dead?"

  "No!" The questions rained down on him like arrows—sharp, pricking, opening like a wound his worst fears about himself. He paced, trying to dodge the pain, the ugliness.

  "Have you once felt relieved that he was gone?"

  "Hell, no! What's the matter with you?" Pushed to the edge, afraid he'd looked into the blackest part of his soul and succumbed to it, Sam shoved past his brother. "I didn't come here for this. I thought you could help me understand—"

  "Did you ever make a move on her while Brad was alive?"

  Fury rolled through him and a deep hurt that his brother would even ask. "No, dammit!"

  "And you never would have." Mace's voice gentled suddenly. "I know that about you. Because you loved Brad, you respected his wife and you valued your friendship with both of them. Those things are still true, Sam. Still true."

  Feeling as if he'd been steamrollered, Sam stared blankly at Mace, then made his way to the couch and sank down onto the thick cushions. It was true. All those things were still true.

  Mace resumed his seat in the chair. "If you'd wanted Dallas at any price, you wouldn't be struggling with this now."

  Realization unfolded and with it, the first sense of relief he'd felt since Brad's death. He believed what Mace said. He knew, deep in his gut, that he never would have crawled over Brad to get to Dallas. Never. Not unless Brad was out of the picture. And Sam had never wanted Brad out of the picture.

  He rose and clasped his brother's hand hard. Gratitude tightened his chest. "You don't know how much this helps."

  "I'm glad." Mace grinned. "It'll be all right."

  "Because you say so, big brother?"

  "Yeah."

  Sam shrugged into his coat and slapped Mace on the back. He drove away, contemplative and solemn. For the first time, he thought he might be able to come to terms with what had happened that day in the warehouse—his inability to save Brad. The guilt and sense of disloyalty didn't just disappear, but now Sam actually believed they would someday. He needed to pay a visit to Brad.

  * * *

  The phone jarred Sam out of a deep sleep. He pushed aside the photo of him, Brad and Dallas and squinted at the neon green numbers on his clock—3:30 a.m. When he heard Lieutenant Roberts's voice on the other end, the fog of sleep cleared away. And when Sam hung up the phone, he knew this case was about to blow wide-open.

  He immediately called Dallas. At the sleepy huskiness of her voice, desire tugged low in his belly. "It's me."

  "Not another one?" she asked with a combination of dread and anger.

  "We just got lucky. He tried again, but the woman escaped."

  "We've got a live witness?" She was anxious now, her voice clear and alert.

  "Yep."

  "He's getting antsy. It's only been three days since the last murder."

  "Yeah."

  "Let's go talk to the witness."

  "I'm on my way to pick you up."

  "I'll be ready."

  Sam hung up and threw on his clothes, then drove to Carrie's. Dallas was the best. There hadn't been a hint of hurt or feminine aloofness in her. After the way he'd left things tonight, he'd expected at least one of those. But she was just as much a professional as he was. And they both wanted to catch this killer.

  * * *

  The fact that Sam had stalled things between them smarted, but Dallas was glad he'd been honest about why. She hurt for him because she really did understand. Somehow she'd worked through the guilt, and she wanted that for him.

  He wanted her. He'd admitted that. For now, it would have to be enough. Dallas struggled to push aside her wounded pride before Sam arrived, needing to put herself on autopilot. Christmas was two days away and they had a killer to catch.

  Dallas was waiting on Carrie's front porch when Sam pulled into the drive, his headlights stabbing through the blackness of the night. Her breath puffed out ghostly white as she walked down the steps and climbed into his truck.

  He hande
d her a cup of steaming coffee he'd picked up at a nearby convenience store and she took it with a grateful thank-you. As they drove to the station, light from the streetlamps flashed periodically into the truck, illuminating the strain on his handsome features. But there was also expectancy, intensity. She felt an increased energy in the air, and the hope that this time they were finally on the right track.

  Thank goodness, they'd gotten the break they needed in this case. She didn't know where things between her and Sam would end up, but for now she was here with him and they were working together.

  During the trip, both of them were silent. Dallas tapped her foot nervously. This had to be their guy.

  Twenty minutes later, they stood in Interview Room One, where a young woman sat in a metal chair at the long center table. A small card table rested against the adjacent wall, holding cups, coffee, stir sticks and pink packets of sweetener.

  The witness's name was Christine Liddell and she'd been picked up at Calhoun's just after midnight.

  "These are the detectives who'll work your case, miss." Lieutenant Roberts motioned Dallas in behind Sam. "You'll need to go over your story with them and answer any questions they have."

  "I gotta tell it again?" the girl asked, glancing from Sam to Dallas.

  "Just so we can make sure we've got everything straight." Sam smiled reassuringly as he slid into the chair across from her.

  She flicked a wary glance at Roberts, then nodded, tucking a strand of lank dark hair behind her ear. Dark circles of fatigue ringed her brown eyes, which were also bloodshot.

  Probably from liquor, Dallas thought. "Would you like something? Coffee or water?"

  "I got coffee." She lifted a small foam cup and seemed to relax somewhat.

  The lieutenant walked out, closing the door behind him. Dallas remained standing, letting Sam guide the investigation so everything would be aboveboard.

  "According to what you told the officer at the scene, this guy's about five-eleven, a hundred and sixty pounds."

  She nodded.

  "Why don't you start by telling us how you hooked up with him?"

  She gave a loud sigh. "I left the bar with him. I was gonna— You know."

  "Sleep with him?" Sam prodded, flipping open his note-book.

  "Yeah." Her gaze flicked to Dallas.

  Dallas offered what she hoped was an encouraging smile. It was all she could do to control her impatience to hear the whole story.

  "Then I changed my mind. There was something about him. I don't know. He just creeped me out. He pulled this chain off his wallet and put it by the bed."

  Sam shot a look at Dallas and she smiled. This is him. It's got to be.

  "I was drunk—real drunk—but that scared me," Christine continued. "I couldn't get away at first. He held me down and I fought him."

  "Did you scratch him? Bloody his nose, maybe?" Dallas asked quietly.

  "I don't think so. I don't really remember." She raised a hand to her throat. "He tried to put that chain on my neck. That's when I got away."

  "Did you notice a cross tattoo on his right hand?"

  "Yes. I told that to the first man, too." She glanced at Dallas. "Do y'all think you know who it is?"

  "We can't be sure of that yet," Sam said. "Did he drive to your house?"

  The girl nodded. "One of those big cabs. Not like a taxi—like what semitrailer drivers drive."

  Bingo. Dallas met Sam's gaze over the girl's head. Triumph gleamed in his blue eyes.

  "Is there anything else?" he asked.

  Dallas could sense the urgency beneath his gently worded question. She admired his restraint because she knew his hunting instincts were out in full force.

  Christine shook her head. "Oh, wait! At the bar, he told me his name was Winston. That helps, doesn't it?"

  Sam scribbled in his notebook. "Yes, that will help."

  "You called from a neighbor's?" Dallas interjected.

  "Yes. By the time the police got there, he'd left my house."

  It all fit. Same MO, same description. The link to the truck stops. And now they had a name. Adrenaline buzzed through Dallas.

  "Is that all? Can I go home now?" Christine asked plaintively. "This will help you catch him, right?"

  Dallas exchanged a look with Sam and he nodded, pushing the mug shots across the table. "Could you look at these photos? See if you recognize any of these men?"

  She studied the pictures, shook her head slowly. "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I was really drunk."

  Sam pushed away from the table and rose. "Thank you, Miss Liddell. You did the right thing to report this. If we get him, will you want to press charges?"

  "Yeah, I guess." She looked uncertainly at Dallas. Dallas smiled broadly as she opened the door to the interview room. "Good decision."

  Christine rose and walked past her, then halted. "This probably wouldn't have happened to you, would it?"

  Dallas stared into the young woman's eyes, saw shame and embarrassment. She patted the girl's shoulder. "That man took advantage of you. It could happen to anyone. You got away and you did the smart thing by coming to us."

  Christine's dark eyes measured Dallas, then she smiled. "Thanks."

  "Thanks for coming in," Sam called as she walked toward the stairs.

  He motioned to Dallas and together they went into the lieutenant's office. "We're going to check the truck stops for this guy," Sam told him.

  "Okay," Lieutenant Roberts said. "Keep me informed." Sam nodded. Dallas lifted a hand in farewell and followed Sam downstairs and out to his truck.

  Though it was cold, there was no wind and the sky was clear. Stars winked on a velvety black canvas and a three-quarters moon hovered overhead.

  She glanced over. "This girl was picked up in the same bar as the first victim."

  "Yeah, I caught that. Think he's starting his pattern over?"

  "Could be. Let's start with the truck stop across from there."

  Nodding in agreement, Sam opened her door, then walked to the driver's side.

  In the fifteen minutes it took to reach the truck stop near Calhoun's, Sam and Dallas talked about inconsequential things like how the weather had turned out nice and the slim possibility of a white Christmas. As they chatted about nothing, Dallas was struck by how good Sam was at his job, how he never gave up or seemed to get discouraged. Most especially, she was conscious of how different things were between them now than when she had first arrived ten days ago.

  There was still friction between them, but whereas before, Sam's distance had been about her and his inability to trust her, now it was tied to Brad and the guilt Sam carried.

  When she'd come to Oklahoma City, she'd been clear and determined about what she wanted. She would catch Valeria's killer. She would go back to Denver. She wouldn't become involved with Sam.

  She'd told herself she could work with him, that she was immune to his charm and the lure of their past friendship. She'd told herself that the yawning void in her heart—caused by missing him—would heal.

  Now Sam had turned her emotionally inside out and she was sure of only one thing: she was going to get Valeria's killer.

  When they reached the truck stop and started into the building, Sam turned to Dallas. "If we run into a Charmaine clone in here, I want you to draw your gun."

  Dallas laughed. "Can't you handle her?"

  "That's just it." He gave a mock shudder. "I don't want to 'handle' anything about her."

  They laughed together and it was then that she realized what she hadn't admitted before. She'd been so sure of herself, so sure she could work with him, then walk away. Now she wasn't so sure. Sam reached a part of her no man ever had, and it scared her. Part of her liked being in control, and she knew a relationship with Sam would bring down all the barriers.

  He wanted her, but she didn't think either of them was ready for anything else. At least not yet. Maybe never.

  She reined in her impatience. This professional
ease was better than stilted silence or awkward pauses, but it still left Dallas feeling unsatisfied.

  Inside the truck stop, the odors of ammonia and stale cigarette smoke hung heavy. The clerk at the cash register called the manager out from the back.

  "Winston?" The painfully thin man with tobacco-stained teeth frowned. "First or last name?"

  "We're not sure," Sam said.

  "You got a picture?"

  "We were hoping you could give us a full name so we could get one."

  "Sorry." The other man clucked his tongue. "Can't help ya."

  Sam's jaw hardened, but he thanked the man. The manager nodded, starting down an aisle as Sam and Dallas turned for the door. Frustrated, Dallas shoved a hand through her hair. Someone had to know this guy!

  "Hey, I know a guy who works for Winston Trucking." The manager halted next to a display of magazines. "Does that help?"

  Hope flared to life inside Dallas.

  Sam shot her a grin. "Yeah, give me what you've got."

  * * *

  They couldn't get what they needed from Winston Trucking until the morning shift reported at eight o'clock, so they stopped at a diner on the south side of Oklahoma City and had breakfast. The sun rose in a rainbow of pastel pinks and yellows. The optimistic sense that the case had finally turned their way was evident in their companionable silence.

  At Winston Trucking, the day supervisor and the secretary were very helpful, giving Sam and Dallas a list of their drivers, along with the log of their runs for the past three months. Out of the fifty-three drivers, four of them had been in Oklahoma City on the dates of all murders.

  The first, a woman, was eliminated right off. Sam called in the names of the other three to Records, waiting on the line as the secretary read the information to him over the phone.

  One of the men showed up in OCPD records. He had served time for rape, but he was Hispanic and in his mid-fifties. Number two eliminated.

  The other two men didn't show up in the computer, so Sam ran a check through NCIC—the National Crime Information Center. One of them turned up as having served time in Arizona for assault and burglary. But he was bald as a new egg and weighed almost three hundred pounds. The remaining driver, a Richie Lewis, fit the general description of their suspect, but had no priors.