by Mallory Kane
RYKER’S WORDS SLAMMED into Nicole’s chest like she imagined bullets would feel. You’re. His. Only. Mistake.
“What do I do now?” she asked, forcing the words through numbed lips.
Ryker let go of her hand. “Do what I told you. Be careful. Take reasonable precautions.”
She nodded. She’d do anything he told her to. Because suddenly the danger he kept talking about was ominously real. A man was out there, with her knife, killing women.
“But he killed that—other woman. Why would you still think he’s after me?”
“I can’t afford to think anything else. We don’t know if he thinks you can identify him. Your name was in the paper last year after the break-in, so he probably knows who you are, although he may not know where you live now. But I’m not willing to take any chances.”
Nicole swallowed hard, and bit her lip. She opened her mouth to thank Ryker for protecting her, but he spoke first.
“I need your knives.”
She was shocked. “My knives?” She tried to ask why, but her lips still felt numb.
“I need to take them to the medical examiner. I’m hoping he can positively identify the murder weapon as a match to your set of knives.”
Nicole shuddered at the thought that her missing knife had caused someone’s death. “I bought another boning knife,” she said.
“You did?” Ryker’s eyes sparked. “The same brand? The same knife?” She nodded.
“That’s even better. Dave can match it to the casting he made. I may finally be able to link two cases. Yours and Jean Terry’s.”
“Jean Terry? She’s the—the latest victim?”
“Yeah. She was stabbed in the back.”
Nicole wanted to put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear any of the specifics. Her active imagination had already given her an image of the poor woman being stabbed. She didn’t want a name, and certainly not a face, to go with that grisly image.
She clasped her hands together for a brief moment, trying to force the picture of her knife buried to the hilt in a woman’s back out of her brain. Then she stood. “I’ll get my case.”
He followed her to the kitchen.
She held it out. “When can I get it back?”
“I’ll try to get the rest of the knives back to you as soon as I can, but the boning knife will probably go into evidence. You’ll have to get along without it.” He took the case. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of them.”
He turned to leave, then turned back. “Keep your cell phone on you at all times. What time do you get off tonight?”
“Eleven. We’re working on inventory this morning, but I have a regular shift tonight. So I’ll be done around eleven, as usual.”
Ryker nodded. “I’ll pick you up.”
A wave of relief washed over Nicole like a sudden shower, surprising her. She hadn’t realized how worried she was. But she tried to protest anyway. What she’d told him last night was true. She was not going to act like a victim. “You don’t have to—”
His glare paralyzed her throat. She swallowed again and nodded. “Okay,” she rasped.
A slight smile lightened his features. “That’s better. Remember what I said. Reasonable precautions.” He headed toward the door.
Nicole stood and followed him to the door, unable to tear her eyes away from his casual, loose-limbed gait as he walked to his car, folded his long legs into the front seat and drove away. She didn’t know whether to be thankful that he was so determined to keep her safe, or terrified that he thought it was necessary.
WITHIN THIRTY MINUTES, Ryker was back in the forensics lab with Dave.
“I was just about to take off,” Dave said. “My daughter’s soccer game is this afternoon.”
“Sorry,” Ryker said. “Hopefully this won’t take long. I’ve got Nicole’s knives here. She bought a new boning knife, same brand as the one that was stolen.” He opened the case and laid it out on a table.
Dave set the casting he’d done from Jean Terry’s fatal wound down on a high-definition overhead projector, then laid the boning knife from Nicole’s case next to it. He positioned them parallel to each other facing the same direction, and stood there, studying the high-resolution image projected on the screen.
Ryker stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. He tried to look at the objects analytically, like Dave was, but as far as he could tell, the casting was barely recognizable as a knife at all. He couldn’t see a lot of resemblance to Nicole’s new boning knife.
As hard as he tried to maintain an open mind, he was fast losing his conviction that the knife and the fatal wound were a match.
“Well?” he finally said, unable to wait any longer.
“Hmm,” Dave said. He pressed a button on a computer at his elbow, typed briefly, then pressed another button. A printer sang out, its harsh sound splitting the air. Dave took the printout, then crossed the room and pulled a transparency out of a file folder and brought it back to the projector. He removed the knife and the casting and positioned the transparency so that it was projected onto the screen. Then he adjusted the focus.
“What’s that?” Ryker felt like a kid who’d been told to be patient. It was all he could do not to fidget like a ten-year-old. He thought the picture was of the V-shaped wound, but he was out of his element here, so he couldn’t assume anything.
“It’s a film of the wound.” Dave studied it for a few minutes, then took the knife over to the lighted magnifier and studied it from all angles.
After what seemed to Ryker like an hour, Dave finally turned off the magnifier’s light and flipped off the overhead projector.
He folded his arms.
“Dave!” Ryker said, exasperated.
Dave smiled. “I can’t say with a hundred percent certainty, but—”
Ryker held his breath.
“But I’m about ninety percent sure that the weapon that killed Jean Terry is a match to this boning knife from Nicole Beckham’s chef knife case.”
Ryker blew out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Ninety percent? That’s great! That’s enough.” He clapped Dave on the shoulder. “Thanks, Dave! When can I have your written report?”
“Monday.”
“Monday?” That tempered Ryker’s elation a bit. “Two days? But I’ve got to convince Mike that I have a connection.”
Dave cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s Saturday. You won’t get to Mike before Monday anyway.”
Ryker’s phone rang. He glanced at the display. “Speaking of the devil,” he muttered.
“I’m out of here,” Dave said. “If we don’t leave right now, my wife and I will miss the beginning of the game.”
Ryker waved at Dave as he answered the phone. “Delancey here.”
“Ryker, get to my office. Now!” Mike Davis’s voice boomed through the phone.
“What’s up?” Ryker asked as he turned toward the door.
“Now!”
“Yes, sir.” He snapped the phone closed as he reached his car. He couldn’t figure out what had happened. As much as Mike blustered, he never lost his cool.
But just now, he’d sounded anything but cool. Ryker cringed. What crisis could possibly be bad enough to fluster the big deputy chief?
“NO, SIR,” RYKER SAID to Mike a few minutes later. “I haven’t seen it.”
Mike shoved the morning newspaper across his desk toward Ryker.
There, in black-and-white, was the front-page article that had Mike worked up.
Parish Sheriff Denies Connection Among Victims Of October Killer.
October Killer. Ryker’s chest tightened. Not only had the press gotten wind of his theory of a serial killer, they’d already named the case.
“Now, I haven’t talked to the press,” Mike growled. “And neither has the sheriff. So where the hell did this reporter get this?”
Ryker’s heart sank to his toes. Lon Hébert. “Well, yesterday morning at the crime scene—” He paused. “Delancey!”
>
“Lon Hébert showed up at the Jean Terry crime scene not ten minutes after I got there. He claimed he heard about the homicide on a police scanner—”
Mike broke in with a long, colorful string of curses, ending with “Son of a bitch! What the hell did you say in front of him?”
“Mike, nothing, I swear. I’d just mentioned something to Bill about the knife wound and Nic’s missing knife, when Hébert showed up.”
Mike’s normally florid face turned beet-red, and he bit right through the toothpick between his teeth. “‘Nic’s missing knife’? Who the hell is Nic?”
“Nicole Beckham. Last year’s victim, whose roommate arrived home in time to scare off the killer.”
“I don’t believe it,” Mike snapped. “I should—but I don’t. Of all the stupid stunts.”
“Hébert said he was going to call you for a statement. He didn’t?”
“Hell no, he didn’t.”
“When I told him to get out I reminded him to check anything he decided to print with the office here. I’ll talk to him—”
“No. I’ll send Crenshaw. What you’re going to do is sit down and take me through the cases. I’ve got to meet with the sheriff in one hour at his golf course. His tee time was delayed because of this article.” Mike leaned back in his chair. “He’s going to rip me a new one, so I’m going to do the same for you. Sit!” Ryker sat.
“I warned you about talking about your theories. Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made it clear to everyone in this office that you believe we’ve got a serial killer. And now you’ve involved the press. I could put you on suspension for that.”
“I’ve never—” Ryker stopped. He’d started to say he’d never spoken to anyone outside of the department, but after last night that was no longer true. He’d talked to Nicole about it. “I may have been too vocal, but—”
Mike held up a hand. “Spare me. I know. Women are dying. Okay, I’m here. I’m listening. Convince me that we’ve got a serial killer.”
Ryker leaned forward. “I was in the medical examiner’s office when you called. Dave just confirmed that the boning knife that killed Jean Terry is a match to the knife that was taken from Nicole Beckham’s apartment last year on October 20.”
“I thought you didn’t recover a murder weapon from the Terry scene.”
“We didn’t. But Dave, Dr. Miller, took a casting of the wound, and it matches the new boning knife that Nicole bought to replace the one that was stolen.”
“Have you got Miller’s report?”
“He’ll get it to me Monday. He—we—didn’t expect you to be working today.”
Mike’s florid face darkened. “Neither did I. And I sure didn’t figure I’d be trekking out to the golf club to get my ass chewed by the sheriff.”
“I’ll be glad to go.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not putting you within a hundred yards of the sheriff.” Mike stood and reached for his coat, then turned and pointed at Ryker. “I’m not happy about this. But I’m also not happy about that woman being killed. You put your cases together. Work them as a serial killer case. But suspension won’t be all you’re looking at if your theory turns out to be wrong. I can’t even tell you what the sheriff will do to you and to me. I hope you don’t have to wait until another woman dies before you can solve it.”
Ryker stood. “Me, too, sir. Me, too. How many men can I have?”
“One. Crenshaw.”
“One? But—”
“Don’t push me, Delancey. You can use my secretary, Anne-Marie, for paperwork and phone calls. And get me that M.E. report first thing Monday.”
Ryker opened his mouth to tell Mike that one person plus a piece of the deputy chief’s secretary wasn’t enough, but Mike was already out the door, and anyhow, Ryker knew that he was getting off easy, considering it very well could be his fault Hébert had gotten wind of the connection between Jean Terry’s case and Nicole’s missing knife. He didn’t need to press his luck.
His gaze lit on the newspaper headline. He picked up the paper Mike had shoved toward him and quickly skimmed the article. His eyes zeroed in on the last paragraph.
Sources tell us that a knife belonging to a previous victim was the weapon used to kill the latest victim, whose name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. The chef, Nicole Beckham, whose knife was stolen during a foiled attack on October 20 of last year, could not be reached for comment. The same sources reveal that she is helping with the investigation and has been an invaluable asset.
Damn it! He folded the paper and slapped it against his leg. Lon Hébert might as well have drawn a target on Nicole’s back. Any reporter worth their salt knew better than to name a victim without clearing it with the sheriff’s office. And then he’d said that she had been invaluable to the investigation. If the killer wasn’t already sure that Nicole could recognize him, he would be now.
Ryker called Bill Crenshaw. “Bill, has Mike talked with you?”
“I just passed him in the hall. I just got off the phone with the newspaper office. Can’t reach Hébert. Apparently he hightailed it out of town for the weekend as soon as he turned in the story.”
“Son of a bitch! Listen, Bill. You didn’t tell anybody what I said at the crime scene about the knife, did you?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and then a few choice curse words. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I know. Sorry. You think Hébert heard me?”
“He said something about a scanner, but I think he’s got a friend inside the sheriff’s department.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Well, I’m not accusing anybody, but you’ve heard the saying. Telephone, telegraph, tell-a-CSI.”
“You think it was one of the crime scene investigators who worked the scene?”
“Both Masters and the new guy—Jones—were in the room when you said what you did about the knife.”
“You think they heard me?”
“I barely heard you, but it’s not impossible. CSIs sure like to think they know it all.”
“I’d like to punch Hébert’s lights out for putting Nic’s name in the paper. I tell you what, though. That article got me what I’ve been trying to get all along. Mike agreed to let me combine the cases.”
“No way!”
“Didn’t Mike tell you he’s putting you on the cases with me?”
“Nope. He was grousing about getting his ass chewed by the sheriff.”
“Dave matched the wound to Nicole’s missing boning knife. I brought her case of knives over for him to compare.”
“Hold on a minute. How did he match something to a missing knife?”
“Well, to its replacement. That just happened about two hours ago. Listen, Bill,” Ryker added, “Mike’s putting you on the cases with me. The October Murders, since the reporter already named it for us. Can you meet with me this evening so I can go over the case files with you?”
“Wish I could, but I’m on my way up to Baton Rouge to a ball game. I’m not on duty again until Monday.”
Ryker sighed. “Okay. First thing Monday, then.”
“Right. Monday.”
Ryker left Mike’s office and headed to the evidence room to check out the files until Tuesday. He was disappointed that Bill wouldn’t be available until Monday, but he understood. Nobody was as committed to solving this case as he was. He’d already put in hours of off-duty time trying to prove there was a serial killer out there. He couldn’t expect anyone else to give up their free time.
But now that he had a partner to work with on the case, he needed to make sure he had every bit of evidence lined up. He understood all his notes and scribbling, but Bill wouldn’t. And Ryker needed Bill up to speed as soon as possible.
Maybe a new eye looking at the evidence could pinpoint what he was missing. Because he had to be missing something. There was no perfect crime. One way or another, the killer would trip up. And Ryker intended to be there when he did.
Chapter Five
“Job, you go on home. You’ve been here all day. And this was supposed to be your Saturday off.”
“We had to get the inventory done.”
Nicole shrugged out of her chef’s coat and hung it on the rack beside the kitchen door. Then she turned back to the long counter to retrieve her knife case—and remembered that she didn’t have it. Ryker had it.
Job took off his apron and tossed it into the laundry bin. “It was a good day. We finished the inventory and handled a big dinner crowd.”
“Yes, it was, but I’ve got to admit I’m exhausted.” She looked at her watch. Ten after eleven. Ryker had told her he’d pick her up. Had he forgotten?
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I just wish Ryker had told me the paper was going to print that.”
“Me, I hate newspapers. They ruin lives and say it’s the public’s right to know. Vultures.”
“I guess I should have expected it, after Ryker took my knives to match with the victim’s wound.” Nicole shivered. “But I didn’t.”
“Speaking of that boyfriend of yours, you sure he’s coming?”
She sent a glare Job’s way. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s—he’s a detective. He said he’d be here.”
“I think he’d like to be your boyfriend.”
She felt her face heating up. Did it show? The fact that she and Ryker had— She stopped that thought right there. “Job, don’t talk like that. We’re not in high school.”
“That’s for sure,” Job retorted.
Nicole’s face grew hotter. She turned around and checked the pockets of her chef’s coat, although she knew she hadn’t left anything in them. But she needed time for her fiery cheeks to cool down.
Job stuck his signature fedora on his bald head. “Come on, Nicki. I’ll take you home.”
Just then a knock sounded on the front door of the restaurant. Nicole jumped. Why was she so jittery all of a sudden? It was a rhetorical question. She knew why. A woman had been killed, and Ryker was convinced that the murder weapon used was her missing knife.
“That’s him now.” She started for the door.