Double-Edged Detective

by Mallory Kane

  “I’ll get it,” Job said. He beat her to the door and scrutinized Ryker through the glass before he opened it.

  “Hi, uh—Mr. Washington.”

  “Job. Call me Job.”

  “Job. I’m here to pick up Nicole.” Ryker’s gaze slid past Job and met her gaze. He raised his brows. “Ready?”

  Job stepped between Ryker and Nicole. “All this time I thought you were an admirer,” he said in an accusatory tone.

  Ryker looked surprised. “I’m a big fan. You’ve got a great chef.”

  “Humph.” Job adjusted his fedora. “Not too smart, letting the newspaper shine the spotlight on her like that.”

  Ryker nodded. “I agree. If I’d known, I’d have stopped it.”

  Job eyed him. “Nothing better happen to Nicki, you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nicole said. “It’s all right. Detective Delancey has my best interests at heart.”

  Job took a step away from the door, so Ryker could come in. “I’m headed home. I’ll go out the back and lock up there. You make sure the front is locked and the alarm is turned on.”

  “I will. Thanks.” She set the alarm and locked the front door behind them. As they walked across the street, Ryker looked around.

  “Where’d Job go?”

  “He parks behind the restaurant.”

  “Ah. So he parks behind the restaurant. He drives to work.”

  “He lives in Bush. That’s several miles from here. I live three blocks away. Speaking of which, are you really going to drive me three blocks?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s silly,” Nicole muttered as she climbed into his car on the passenger side. She watched him as he got in and cranked the engine, thinking the same thing she’d thought when she’d first met him on the night of her near attack, and again last night.

  Detective Ryker Delancey was startlingly good-looking with light brown hair, blue eyes and lashes that stirred a breeze when he blinked. His features were clean and chiseled. His mouth was wide and straight, and looked as if it was made for smiling. It occurred to her that he didn’t smile much.

  As if he’d heard her, he glanced her way, and his mouth turned up slightly. He reached into the backseat and set her chef’s knife case on her lap.

  “My knives,” she said. It had surprised her how incomplete she’d felt all day without them. Her mother had given them to her when she’d graduated from culinary school.

  In ten years, she hadn’t been without them, until today. She opened the case and looked inside. The boning knife slot was empty. The empty slot taunted her with danger, just like it had that night. “You kept my boning knife.”

  He looked over at her as he pulled into the parking lot behind her building. “Why didn’t you get it engraved, like the others?” His head nodded slightly toward the case.

  “I don’t know. My mother—my mother gave the set to me.” She closed the case and ran her fingers along the polished teak. Then she realized Ryker was still looking at her. She shrugged.

  “I guess I thought I’d eventually get the other knife back. Silly of me.”

  “You might still, if we catch him.”

  She shook her head. Her fingers closed around the case’s handle. “Please, don’t even say that. I don’t want it. Not after—” She shuddered. The idea of using that knife—even seeing it—horrified her. It had blood on it now. Human blood. She would never be able to look at it, never be able to touch it, again.

  Ryker pulled out into the street and within a few minutes, he turned into the tiny parking lot behind her building. He killed the engine.

  “Which car is yours?” he asked before Nicole could grab the door handle to get out.

  “It’s the silver Ford Fusion over there.”

  They got out and Ryker surveyed the parking lot. “Way over there?”

  Nicole closed the passenger door.

  “Bring it over here and park it next to your stairwell.”

  “I’m not going to do that. I almost never use my car. It would just sit there, taking up space that someone who drives to work every day could use.”

  Ryker rounded the front of his BMW, his fists clenched, and got in her face. “Did you think that was a request?” he growled.

  Nicole stiffened. He’d morphed from handsome protector to angry commander in a flash. She took a step backward.

  Ryker checked himself and unclenched his fists. “Sorry. But you need to understand what’s going on here.”

  She clutched her knife case handle in one hand and her purse strap in the other. “So tell me. What is going on here? Because I’m getting confused. Your serial killer only attacks once a year, right? Well, then, he’s got his quarry for 2010. Or were you thinking you’d lure him out by making sure he and everybody else in the Greater New Orleans area knew it was my knife he killed that woman with?”

  “Are you suggesting I gave that reporter that story?” His brows drew down, turning his handsome face into a threatening mask.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she said shakily, taking a step backward.

  Ryker’s face transformed immediately. “I’m sorry, Nic. If I’d known that reporter had that information, I’d have stopped him, one way or another.”

  “But you didn’t. And now—”

  A pickup truck roared down the street and careered into the parking lot. Ryker’s arm snaked around Nicole’s waist and pulled her to him and away from the unpredictable path of the vehicle. She heard him mutter “Bastard!” under his breath.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “I don’t like you standing out here in the open.”

  His hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the stairs, where he waited for her to go first. The idea of him following her up the stairs, gazing at her backside, which would be at his eye level, made her really self-conscious. She wished she had a jacket, or a long top that covered her butt. Or a better butt, she thought wryly.

  At the top of the stairs, she waited with her keys proffered. He took them and unlocked her door, then stood aside while she entered first. Then he glanced around the landing and the streets below before he came inside and closed and locked the door.

  And here they were. Just like last night. Only now there was this thing between them. Nicole’s knees threatened to buckle as the image, the feel, the scent of him hit her. His hands, his body, his mouth, had showed her a whole new dimension to sex. Now she had no idea what to do or say.

  If anything, he was acting more like a cop than he had yesterday, when he’d come up to her apartment to convince her of the danger she was in, and ended up making her feel safer than she could ever remember feeling.

  She looked at him. He appeared relaxed, and yet ready for anything, like a predator waiting for its prey. His intensity gave her chills. At this moment, she couldn’t reconcile the two sides of him. The tender lover was gone and in his place was a warrior chief, ready to do battle.

  Ryker took a folded sheet of newsprint out of his jacket pocket and held it up. “I brought this in case you didn’t get to read it all.”

  “Oh, I read it. And heard it read to me over and over again by the kitchen staff and the waiters. If I’d stepped out of the kitchen, I’m sure the diners would have had a lot to say about it, too.”

  “Damn it,” Ryker muttered.

  “Maybe it’s not that big a deal. My name was in the paper last year.”

  He glared at her. “Yes, and you quit your job and moved to a different town. Don’t you understand what this means?”

  She tried to ignore the faintly nauseated feeling below her breastbone that told her she did understand. “I understand what it doesn’t mean. I am not moving again.”

  She walked around the island into the kitchen, a futile effort to put distance between her and what Ryker was saying. It didn’t help.

  “I got permission to connect the cases.”

  “Connect?” Her heart thumped in her chest. She knew w
hat that meant, but she didn’t want to go there.

  “Want some coffee?” she countered, and turned without waiting for an answer. It took a couple of minutes and a bit of concentration to grind the espresso beans and start them to brewing. Then she reached to open the refrigerator to retrieve the milk.

  Ryker’s hand wrapped around hers. “Stop ignoring me,” he growled.

  She jumped. “Stop sneaking up on me!” She could feel a flutter in her throat. It was her pulse. “I’m not ignoring you,” she finished lamely.

  “The hell you’re not. You heard what I just said. Your knife links your case with Jean Terry’s, and therefore with all the others. And now, because of that reporter, the October Killer knows we’re onto him.”

  Nicole stared at him. “The October Killer?”

  He nodded at the newspaper. “Didn’t you notice that?”

  “Of course I noticed it. You’re not seriously going to call him—”

  “Hey. The reporter sensationalized the cases by giving him that name,” he said wryly. “That’s the name we’re stuck with.” He let go of her hand and stepped back around the island and sat down on a bar stool.

  She fixed them each a decaf cappuccino, concentrating on not letting her fingers tremble, and set his in front of him. “But Jean Terry is his victim for this year, right? If he stays true to form—”

  “He won’t. Listen to me, Nic. He knows we’re onto him. And he knows why. It’s because of you. You are a threat to him. And now he knows where to find you. If he didn’t already.”

  And there it was. What she hadn’t wanted to hear. Or face. She clutched the sides of the cup for warmth and stared down into the pale tan foam. “I guess I’ve been pretending that none of this has anything to do with me.”

  Ryker’s gaze scrutinized her. “You can’t live like that. Ignoring the truth is dangerous—especially right now. Do you have someplace you could go, until we catch this guy? Your mother? Your dad?”

  “My mother is dead. And there’s no father in the picture.”

  “I’m sorry. What about a friend?”

  She shook her head. “The people at the restaurant are my friends. A couple of girls in Chef Voleur. But there’s nobody I could just demand to take me in.”

  She unwrapped her palms from the cup and then took a sip of coffee. “If you’re so worried about my safety, why don’t you assign somebody to watch my apartment at night? Doesn’t the killer always strike at night?”

  “You want to know what kind of manpower my deputy chief gave me to catch this serial killer? One man. One. Bill’s a good cop, but still.” Ryker shook his head and sniffed. “And yeah, the killer has always struck at night—in the past. But now he’s got to be feeling cornered. Like we’ve turned a spotlight onto him. Not only did the newspaper give him a name, they announced that two of the murders were linked by a weapon—your knife.”

  Ryker tossed back the last of his coffee and set his mug down. When he looked up at her, his eyes were burning with intensity. “I’ll stay here.”

  “What?” Nicole said. “Here? No. I mean—”

  “Don’t panic,” Ryker said quickly, his mouth turning up. “If I had a man to assign to you as a protective detail, he’d already be on the job. But I don’t. This is strictly precautionary. I’d do the same thing for any witness. I need to make sure you’re safe, because I’m about to mount an aggressive and very intense investigation into these killings. We’re going to stir up the waters. This killer will become very uncomfortable. And the closer we get to him, the more danger you’re in.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re talking about here? In my apartment? But—”

  He held up his hands. “Hey, Nic. Don’t worry. I’m a cop. You’re my victim. That’s all. The other—” he nodded toward the bedroom “—I crossed a line. I apologize. It was wrong of me to take advantage of you.”

  “Take advantage?” Nicole wasn’t sure whether to feel indignant or hurt. “As I recall, we were both quite willing.”

  Ryker’s expression grew stony. “In any case, it was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  Seeing his expression, Nicole decided she didn’t have to choose. She felt both indignant and hurt in equal measure. She straightened. “I see. Well, that’s a relief. Okay, then, the couch is all yours. If you want sheets and pillows, they’re in the closet beside the bathroom.” She turned and put her cup in the sink.

  Ryker watched as she strode toward her bedroom. “Nic,” he called. “I’ll need a key.”

  She whirled and glared at him. For a second, he thought she was going to object, but she retraced her steps and rummaged in a kitchen drawer. Finally she came up with a lone key on a key ring shaped like a chef’s hat. She slapped it onto the kitchen counter.

  “There.” She spun and walked back through the bedroom door, then paused with her hand on the knob, looking at him.

  “Don’t leave the toilet seat up.” She slammed the door behind her.

  He smiled as he lay down on the couch, testing it out. She always had to have the last word. It was something that could easily become very annoying, he was sure. But to his chagrin, he found it cute.

  He turned on his side, then returned to his back, stuffing a throw pillow behind his neck. Not too bad.

  He heard sounds coming from her room. He sat up and listened. It sounded like slamming drawers. He’d made her mad, or hurt her feelings. He hadn’t meant to, but he had meant what he’d said.

  It had been a mistake for him to sleep with her. He knew it now, and he’d known it then. Hell, it was the first thing veteran cops warned rookies about. Don’t get involved. Ever. Not with a victim. Not with a witness. And for damn sure not with a suspect. It was never a good idea. Never.

  He gave the throw pillow a good solid right hook before he lay down on it again. If it was a bad idea in general, then it was a triple bad idea for him—with her.

  Because no matter how many ways he’d tried to spin it all day, it always came back to one thing. Sex with Nicole was the best he’d ever had. Any time. Anywhere. And that was going to make it hard as hell for him to maintain his professional detachment.

  But he had to. If he let himself worry about Nicole on a personal level, it could undermine his effectiveness as a law enforcement officer and sabotage his ability to protect her.

  Maybe, when all this was over—

  No! He pounded the pillow again. No thinking about what might happen later. This was now. He had a killer to catch.

  MONDAY MORNING OVER cappuccino, Ryker outlined the rules for Nicole. She would provide him with her schedule. He’d take her to work and pick her up. When he wasn’t available, he’d arrange for Bill or Job to drive her. “You don’t go anywhere without one of us.”

  “I can’t do this,” Nicole protested. “I feel like I’m the prisoner. I have a life—a job. I’m in charge of buying the protein for the restaurant several days a week. I take a yoga class on Saturdays. I—” She stopped short, her breath hic-coughing like a sob.

  Ryker stood, stretching out the stiffness in his back from lying on her couch. He buckled on his holster. “Then do what I said in the first place. Get out of town until this is all over.”

  She lifted her chin. “No. I am not leaving my home.”

  He studied her. “What is it, Nic? What’s the big deal about moving?” He gestured around him. “You’ve been here less than a year. It’s just an apartment.”

  Her head jerked slightly, as if she were dodging a blow. “I told you I am not moving.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ryker countered. “What’s wrong with moving? I’ve moved a bunch of times. It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal?” She squeezed the mug more tightly. “Where did you spend your childhood?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  Ryker sent her an odd look, but he answered her question. “Here. Well, over in Chef Voleur. That’s where my family’s from. I grew up in the same house my father grew
up in.”

  Nicole nodded. “That explains a lot. I spent my childhood going from one broken-down apartment to another, each one smaller and shabbier than the one before. The last place I lived with my mother was a room in a boarding house.”

  She clenched her jaw. “Then last year, I moved from my beautiful apartment in Chef Voleur to here. Not as nice. Not as large.” She shook her head. “I am not going on that downslide again.”

  “Nic, I’m—I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t say a word. She just finished her coffee and put her mug in the sink. Apparently that particular conversation was over.

  He adjusted his shoulder holster and shrugged into his jacket. “Okay, then. Ready to go?”

  After he dropped Nicole off at L’Orage, he headed for Mike’s office. When he got there, the big man was chewing on a toothpick and studying a report.

  Ryker rapped on the door facing.

  “Come on in,” Mike said without looking up. “Is that—?”

  “Dave’s report,” Mike growled. He shoved the pages across his desk to Ryker. “Looks like you’ve proven your connection, Delancey.”

  Ryker skimmed Dave’s report. It was basically what Dave had told him, except that instead of ninety percent certainty, Dave had expanded his certainty that the wound was made by the same brand and type of knife that had been stolen from Nicole’s kit to ninety-five percent. Ryker read the notation Dave had made.

  The wound was made by a boning knife with a six-inch flexible full tang blade, curved return and tapered bolster. These characteristics are unique to this type of knife, as well as this brand’s signature guard (ref. ill. IV), which left a distinctly shaped contusion on the victim’s skin.

  “He did it,” Ryker muttered. He looked up. “He did it! Ninety-five percent certainty that the knife used to kill Jean Terry is the same knife stolen from Nic—Nicole Beckham.”

  Mike leaned back in his chair and tossed the toothpick he’d macerated into his trash can. “How many open cases are you working right now? Not counting your serial killer cases.”

  Ryker took out his notebook. “I’m due to testify Tuesday morning in a domestic violence case. That should be the end of that one. And I’ve got to drive to Angola for a parole hearing on Thursday. The only other active case I have is the Terry case.”