by LENA DIAZ,
“Not that I could find,” Pierce said. “About the only things linking the victims are their physical characteristics. They were in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties, had long brown hair and blue eyes. He doesn’t kill prostitutes or the homeless, people who wouldn’t be missed. He only goes after white, middle-class victims.”
“Go on,” Logan said. He knew the profile, had read it dozens of times, but hearing it again might make him think of something, an angle he hadn’t thought of before.
Pierce sighed and continued. “He’s probably blue-collar, or if he’s white-collar it’s in a low-paying job. Either that job gives him opportunities to travel, or he quits and easily finds another similar job in any town he lives.”
“Like a waiter?” Logan asked.
“Or a truck driver?” Riley said, his voice holding an edge of excitement.
They all stopped, ignoring the hostile looks of the growing throng of neighbors thirty feet away.
“Exactly like a truck driver,” Pierce said. “You have something?”
Riley glanced back and forth between Pierce and Logan. “Frank Branson is a truck driver.”
Since attempts to locate Frank Branson had failed so far, Logan had decided to embark on a different search. He moved down a row of rusty filing cabinets in the first-floor storage room in the city hall annex. He’d overheard some admin assistants talking about the warehouse fire that had happened, saying they were glad their invoices were stored downstairs. Logan was anxious to take a look and see if any of the police department’s case files were also down here. It was a long shot, but he had to try one last time for a copy of the Northwood file.
Solving that case had become an obsession, he knew it. But he also knew he was better at solving cases when he let his subconscious work on them. Sometimes he needed another case to review to help him get his mind off the current case. That’s when the patterns started making sense. That’s how he’d solved the Metzger case. He couldn’t think of another old case file he’d rather study right now than the case he’d screwed up.
With the disastrous warehouse fire fresh in his mind, he’d decided to search the storage room by himself. At this point, he didn’t trust anyone.
Stopping at a cabinet marked “property of SFPD,” he yanked the drawer open and started thumbing through the files. Five drawers later with nothing to show for his efforts, he moved to the next cabinet. The rusty metal drawer screeched its displeasure as he forced it open. Dust flew up from the top and he waved impatiently to clear the cloud out of his way.
“What are you doing down here, Chief Richards? Is there something I can help you with?” His secretary’s sensible pumps echoed on the concrete floor after she descended the last of the stairs into the storage room. Mabel’s gnarled hands were wrapped around an open-topped box full of computer printouts.
Logan hurried forward and took the box from her. “You shouldn’t carry something this heavy, let alone down those stairs. Have one of the men do that for you.”
“Bah,” she grumbled. “I’ve been going up and down those stairs longer than you’ve been alive. Haven’t managed to fall yet and don’t plan to.” She raised a perfectly plucked, bluish-gray brow. “Put that box over there against the wall and tell me why you’re snooping around down here without asking for my help.”
He carried the box to the spot where she’d pointed, careful to hide his grin at her scolding. When he turned around, she was thumbing through the files in the drawer he’d coaxed open.
“I can’t imagine what you’d find interesting in old expense reports,” she said. “I’ve got a whole cabinet full of requisition requests and travel reimbursement invoices that are much more interesting.”
“I wasn’t looking for expense reports,” he admitted.
She crossed her arms. “You don’t say.”
“I was hoping to find a copy of an old case file that burned up in the warehouse fire.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place. The backups are over here.” Her puffy blue hair bounced in rhythm to the click of her heels as she headed to the far side of the cavernous room.
“Backups? I thought the warehouse had the backups.” He rushed across the room and joined her beside a wall lined with more rusty metal file cabinets.
She huffed and stared at him over the top of her glasses. “I never agreed with putting my files in that moldy firetrap. Of course I have backups. Now, which file are you interested in? I’ll find it a lot faster than you will.”
Hope flared in his chest. He’d come down here without any real expectations of finding anything. “There was a case about ten years ago, a woman was murdered in a motel—”
“Anna Northwood.” She moved down the line of file cabinets, scanning the labels on the front of each one.
“You know about that case?”
“Of course. I pay attention around here. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.” She winked and stopped in front of one of the cabinets. “Here we are.”
Logan stepped forward to force the drawer open but she waved him off.
“They open much more easily when you unlock the cabinet first.”
His face heated as she fished her keys from one of the pockets of her long, pleated skirt. It hadn’t occurred to him that the screeching cabinet he’d opened earlier was locked. He’d assumed it was rusted shut because it was so old.
She unlocked the cabinet and pulled the drawer, which slid open on well-oiled rails without a hint of protest. She raised a brow but didn’t bother to chastise him further. Her unspoken command was clear. Next time, ask her first before infringing on her domain.
A quick flick of her sensibly short nails across the tops of the folders and she located the one she was looking for. “Here you go.” She heaved the thick file up out of the cabinet.
Logan took it from her and scanned the first page to confirm it was the right one. He closed the folder and leaned down to press a quick kiss against Mabel’s cheek.
She blushed, her pale, wrinkled skin turning the bright pink of youth. “What was that for?” she said, clearing her throat and smoothing her skirt.
Logan grinned and gave her another quick kiss. “That, my wonderful, efficient Ms. Mabel, was a thank you. May I assist you upstairs or did you have more work to do down here?”
He offered his arm and she raised a brow before linking her arm through the crook of his elbow. Her eyes sparkled. “I don’t need your assistance, young man, but I’ll take it anyway.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “And I’ll take another “thank you” at the top of the stairs, right in front of Mayor Montgomery’s prissy administrative assistant. Betty Lou has a terrible crush on you. I’d like to take her down a peg or two.”
Logan laughed and led his delightfully sassy secretary toward the stairs.
Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, but Logan was betting the serial killer he was after wasn’t resting. So he wasn’t going to rest either. After spending all day working with his team, he’d come home and secluded himself in his study. He’d begun reading through the Northwood case, several hundred pages of interviews and reports. So far he hadn’t found anything new. He’d also pored through reports and interviews from the O’Donnell case, looking for the elusive clue that would make everything come together.
And he was also trying to forget that Amanda was in the next room.
Living with her under the same roof had proved to be a much bigger strain than he’d expected. He was trying to ignore his body’s inconvenient response to her every time she entered a room. He wanted her, desperately, but it was so much more than that.
She made all his protective instincts go into overdrive. He wanted to help her, keep her safe, hold her close and make sure she knew she never had to be afraid again.
He shook his head, amazed at how quickly his thoughts could stray to Amanda. He needed to concentrate on the case. Their best lead, Frank Branson, wasn’t panning out. No one seemed to know where he was. The trucking company he
worked for said he was hauling a load up to North Carolina. But he never made it to his destination. Pierce’s men were staked out, watching his apartment. Logan hoped Branson was their man, but he didn’t want to risk losing time on any other leads if Branson turned out to be innocent.
“Are you going to work all night?”
All thoughts of the case evaporated when Logan glanced up to see Amanda standing in the doorway to his study. She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. He noticed she’d pulled her hair forward again, hiding half her face. He hated that she felt so self-conscious.
He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was so late. The sun had gone down hours ago and he hadn’t even noticed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize the time. Did you eat?” He started to get up from his chair but she waved him back down as she walked into the room.
“You don’t have to fuss over me. I’ve been feeding myself for quite a while now, without anyone else’s help. I had a sandwich earlier.”
He grimaced. “I haven’t been much of a host since you got here. Is there anything you need? I could go to the store—”
“Karen has been keeping me stocked with everything I need. I certainly don’t expect you to wait on me. You have far more important things to do.” Her smile faded as her gaze fell to the papers strewn across his desk. “Unless you snuck past me sometime today, I don’t think you’ve eaten since breakfast. I haven’t wanted to disturb you, but you’ve got to take a break sometime. I could fix you something to eat. Are you hungry?”
Yes. But not for food. He cleared his throat and made a show of straightening his papers while he reminded himself she was a witness, staying under his roof because she needed protection. No matter how much he wished he could have met her under different circumstances, he hadn’t. She was off-limits. Period. “I’ll eat later. Thanks.”
She moved farther into the room, her gaze lightly touching on the walls of bookshelves, the grouping of chairs in front of the fireplace, the flat screen TV over the mantle. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, stopping in front of his desk with a half-smile on her face.
Logan stared into those deep blue eyes and tried to remember what question she was talking about, but it seemed that every one of his brain cells had taken a vacation when she walked into the room. “What question was that?”
“I was wondering how late you were going to work. You have to take a break sometime or you won’t be able to function tomorrow. There’s an old Miami Dolphins game coming on TV in a few minutes. I thought you might like to watch a few plays, take your mind off . . . things.”
“You like football?”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t?”
“Hell yes, I like football. It’s sort of a genetic requirement, being a guy and all.”
She put her hands on her hips. “So, being a woman and all, I’m not supposed to like sports? Is that what you’re saying?”
He laughed and held his hands up in mock surrender. “Please accept my apologies. My chauvinism is showing.”
The smile that curved her lips had him groaning inside. The woman had no idea how appealing she was.
“You’re forgiven. But only if you watch the game with me.” She plopped down in one of the stuffed armchairs next to the desk.
He looked down at the stack of interviews he hadn’t read through yet.
“Half an hour. You can spare that much time, can’t you?” she said. “We’ll just watch the game for a few minutes, give your mind a break. It will help you see things differently once you get your mind on something else. I’ve spent hours in front of my computer before trying to solve a problem. I’ve found that when I step away for a few minutes, I come back at the problem with a fresh perspective, and I can usually solve it much more quickly that way.”
That’s exactly what he did when working on a case. “All right, I’ll defer to your wisdom. You sound like you know what you’re talking about.” He shoved his chair back and stood. “We can watch the game in here if you want.” He grabbed his remote control out of the top desk drawer and handed it to her. “I’ve got to run upstairs for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He strode across the room to the door.
“Logan?”
Amanda’s soft, hesitant voice had him turning back around. “Yes?” he asked, hating that the sadness that had disappeared from her eyes a moment ago was back.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me stay here. For keeping me safe.”
He wanted to cross the room and pull her into his arms, hold her close and tell her no one would ever hurt her again. But he wasn’t sure if she’d welcome his comfort or if she’d withdraw back behind the wall she often used to block the world out.
His fingers curled around the door jamb and he forced himself, against every protective instinct he had, not to run back into the room and scoop her up in his arms. “Any time.”
Like a rubbernecker on the highway, unable to pass a horrendous crash without looking, Amanda inched toward Logan’s desk to see what he’d been reading when she entered the room. She leaned forward to look at the papers when a stack of envelopes caught her eye. Her name and address were on the top one. A utility bill. Logan must have picked up her mail for her. She hadn’t even thought about her mail since she’d temporarily moved into Logan’s house.
She picked up the stack and flipped through it. Bills, loan offers, the usual assortment of junk mail. The last envelope didn’t look like the others. It had her name on it, but it was addressed to the police station. Why would someone send her mail there? Curious, she ripped open the envelope and pulled out the small folded piece of paper inside.
Logan threw some water on his face and stood gripping the sides of his bathroom sink as if it was a life preserver. He’d been trying to convince himself that his fascination with Amanda was just physical, but her innocent remark about the football game had made him start to panic. They had so many things in common. They liked the same foods, the same beer, the same movies, and now he knew they both had the same favorite football team.
By now he’d almost grown used to the way his body reacted every time she walked into the room, the way he hardened and ached for the relief that he instinctively knew only she could provide. But tonight, his constant desire for her had paled next to his desire to see her smile finally reach her eyes, to hear her laugh, to hold her close and keep her safe. He’d caught a glimpse of the carefree woman she once was and he wanted more.
He pitched the towel on the countertop and shut off the water. There were only two things he should be focusing on right now: keeping Amanda safe and finding the killer. He was letting his concern for her cloud his judgment, affect his decisions.
The man in the mirror stared back at him and Logan knew he couldn’t ignore his duty anymore. Amanda hadn’t told him everything that day at the cabin. She was holding something back about her abduction, something that he sensed could be the missing piece of information that would make everything else fall into place. It was time to confront her and get her to tell him the truth.
After changing his clothes, he started down the stairs, but he paused halfway down. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The light blinking on the alarm panel by the front door should have reassured him, but it didn’t. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
His gun was out of its holster before he reached the bottom step. As quietly as possible, he made his way to his office, praying harder than he’d ever prayed before that he hadn’t let Amanda down, that he hadn’t missed something, and that she wasn’t now paying the price for his mistake.
Careful not to step on any of the boards that were prone to creaking, he crept to the open doorway. Amanda was sitting in one of the overstuffed brown leather recliners beside the dark, rarely used fireplace, her feet curled up beneath her. Relief filled him as he realized she was okay, that no one else was in the room. He holstered his gun before she saw it and stepped through the doorway.
&
nbsp; He was shocked when she turned to look at him and he saw how pale she was. He rushed over to her chair and dropped to his knees. When he took her hands in his he was alarmed at how cold they felt.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked.
She took a ragged breath. “He found me,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word.
Logan looked down at the envelope in her lap and saw the rose petals and thorns.
Chapter Ten
Amanda sat in the recliner, watching Pierce sitting at Logan’s massive desk, studying the note. Logan hovered over him, his frown creased with worry whenever he glanced over at her, which was often.
She was wrapped up in a blanket, Logan’s endearing attempt to comfort her even though it was the middle of summer.
Thank God for air-conditioning.
Even with the blanket, she couldn’t suppress an occasional shiver, which was why he’d wrapped her up in the first place.
But she wasn’t cold.
She was scared.
Pierce grasped the note between his latex-gloved fingers and held it up to the light.
“You think it’s him?” Logan asked.
Pierce shrugged. “Hard to say. There’s no history of the killer threatening any of his victims before he abducted them. It’s certainly not what I would have expected.”
“But you think it’s him.”
He pursed his lips and considered the question. “If I had to say one way or the other, I’d say yes, but only because whoever sent this note knows about the game. Very few people do, unless the killer’s a police officer. I’ve considered that possibility but it doesn’t seem likely. The profile says the killer has a problem with authority. He’d never make it in law enforcement.”
“Are your profiles ever wrong?”
“Of course. But Nelson’s the best profiler we’ve got. I can’t imagine him being wrong about something that significant.” He set the letter down. “Why didn’t you open this at the station?”
Logan’s jaw tightened and Amanda spoke up. “He was going to ask my permission before opening my mail. I saw that envelope sitting on his desk and opened it before he had a chance to warn me.”