by Mallory Kane
“No time, Ryker. Got a meeting with the sheriff.”
“I’ll walk out with you. Why’d you send Dagewood to tell me about the crazy guy that called?”
“Because I was leaving and I saw him in the hall.”
“I mean, why do I need to know about this guy? Dagewood said he’s been calling for years about his daughter’s death.”
Mike nodded as he pushed open the door to the parking lot. “He’s called a few times over the years. Seems his daughter was killed in a mugging, and he thinks we should be tearing up the state looking for the killer.”
“Who did it?”
“Case was never solved. She was shot in a back alley in the French Quarter. No physical evidence to speak of. It was raining.”
“She was shot? Sounds like a mugging gone bad—or a drug deal. Why’s the guy calling St. Tammany?”
“Who knows? I’ve got to go. Anne-Marie has the phone logs. Check with her.”
“Thanks, Mike.” Ryker started to turn, then checked himself. “Hey, Mike—”
“What?”
“You never said why you’re telling me about this guy.”
Mike shrugged. “She was young. She died around this time of the year if I remember what the old man said. Maybe she’s one of yours.” He clicked his remote and the lights on his Buick blinked.
Ryker watched him drive off. Why would Mike think a mugging in New Orleans had anything to do with a serial killer in St. Tammany Parish? He thought about the question Nicole had asked him.
How do you know Daisy was the first? The answer was he didn’t. He’d gone through St. Tammany cases with a fine-toothed comb, but he hadn’t expanded his review to other parishes.
He blew out a frustrated breath. New Orleans. Orleans Parish. It would take him half a lifetime to sift through the murders, much less all the cases written up as home invasions, domestic violence and however else a murder might be misclassified.
He glanced at his watch as he headed toward Anne-Marie’s desk. He might have to wait until tomorrow to ream the reporter.
Today was Nicole’s evening off, and he’d promised her he’d be there to pick her up at six o’clock, and would make gumbo for her. He barely had enough time to run by the grocery store. What she didn’t know about the evening was that he was going to take her to his house, where he had all the spices and herbs, not to mention the right pot—his grandmother’s gumbo pot.
His brain flashed on an image of Nic in his apartment eating gumbo and laughing. In an instant, lust overwhelmed him and his body reacted. Damn it, he had to stop acting like a randy kid.
This would not be an intimate evening of spicy stew and spicy sex. For one thing, he had homework—the telephone logs Anne-Marie had pulled for him.
Maybe that would be enough to dampen his craving for Nic’s body. He was supposed to be protecting her, not lusting after her.
BY THE TIME DINNER was over, Ryker had come to regret bringing Nicole to his apartment. For one thing, his kitchen was way smaller than hers, and she’d insisted on helping him.
So they’d kept bumping into each other. Each bump had escalated Ryker’s lust, until by the time the gumbo was ready, he was sweating and having trouble controlling his breathing.
Now she was sitting on his couch with a glass of wine, and he was washing the dishes.
“What’s this?” she asked.
He turned to look. “Telephone logs. I’ve got to go through them tonight.”
“Telephone logs of what?”
“Phone calls from a man wanting to know why we haven’t caught his daughter’s killer.”
“Is she one of the victims?”
He shook his head. “Not one of the five known victims.”
“Can I read them?”
Ryker dried his hands and tossed the towel onto the kitchen counter. “Nope. I haven’t had a chance to read through them yet. Are you ready to go?”
“Sure.” Was he crazy or did he hear a touch of disappointment in her voice? Maybe she was thinking the same thing he was, that hot spicy gumbo should be followed by hot sweet sex.
Back at her apartment, Nicole took a shower while Ryker settled onto the couch with the stack of computer printouts and two messy dog-eared bound notebooks.
Anne-Marie had apologized for the messy logs. “We only started recording phone calls three years ago,” she’d said, “when we were finally allotted funds to buy new equipment. Prior to that, the logs were handwritten. It took me a while to find them all.”
He shuffled through them. There were five sets including the one that had been recorded today. Three were computer-generated transcripts. The other two were flagged, handwritten pages in a spiral-bound notebook.
He began reading that day’s transcription. At the top of the page was the date and time, and the telephone number and name of the caller, Albert M. Moser, plus his address in Covington, LA.
I’m calling about my daughter. When are you going to find the bastard that killed her?
Sir, I’ll try to help you, but first I need your name.
You know my name. Why do I have to start over every time I call? I just want my daughter’s murderer caught.
I apologize for your inconvenience, sir. Please tell me your name and I promise I’ll try to help you.
Moser. Albert Moser. My baby girl’s name was Autumn. You haven’t done anything, have you? What do I have to do to get your attention?
Can you give me a date? When was your daughter killed?
See, you don’t even know when she died. It was today. October 26. My baby died and nobody even cares. Five years ago today. Do you hear me? Today is her birthday.
Ryker’s pulse sped up. Today, October 26, was Autumn Moser’s birthday. She fit the pattern. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”
Ryker looked up to see Nicole wrapped in her blue waffle-knit robe. Her hair was wet and beginning to wave around her face. Her cheeks were pink from the hot shower, and they matched the color of the polish on her toes. Her sexy toes. He swallowed.
She touched the lapels of her robe, ensuring that it wasn’t gaping open. “Is that one of the phone logs?”
“Yeah.” He heard the excitement in his voice.
“You’ve found something,” she said, taking a step forward. “Tell me.”
“Today is the anniversary of her murder, and it’s her birthday.”
“Oh, my God! She was killed on her birthday? That’s so sad. When was she killed?”
Ryker fanned the transcripts like a card hand. “The earliest log Mike’s secretary found is from 2005.”
“2005?” she repeated. “Wasn’t Daisy’s murder in 2006? That means this girl could be the first victim.”
He heard his own hopes echoed in Nicole’s voice. But the revelation was not all joy. “I can’t know that, or even if she’s connected at all, until I find her case file.”
He stared at the 2005 telephone log. “I went through 2005 case files in St. Tammany. She wasn’t in there.”
“Do you think anything in the phone logs tell you where she was killed?”
“I hope so. I’ve got her name now. Hopefully I’ll eventually be able to find her case file, unless it’s been lost or destroyed.”
“I want to look at them.”
“I’ve already told you, I’m not supposed to let non-authorized personnel read them.”
“Didn’t you tell me you wanted me to be able to protect myself?”
“What I said was that you should exercise reasonable precautions.”
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?”
“Not against a killer I don’t.”
She paused, assessing him. Then without another word, she walked over and sat down on the couch beside him.
Close beside him.
Too close beside him.
He breathed in the scent of watermelon and clean warm skin. Her cheeks were still rosy from the hot water and when she stretched out her legs and propped her fee
t on the coffee table, the robe separated, revealing long lean calves, pretty knees and a hint of a well-shaped thigh.
Ryker sucked in a breath to clear his head, but it didn’t help. The air around her was still suffused with the scent of watermelon.
“Here. This is the first transcript.” He handed it to her and started reading the second one, from 2008. Within a second he saw that it was practically identical to the first. Different phrasing, but the same message.
You don’t even know when she died. It was today. My baby died and nobody cares. It’s her birthday.
He handed that one to Nicole and checked the third computer-printed sheet, this one from 2007. The year Bella had died.
The only real difference in this transcript was the last sentence.
You cops are so blind. Look around you. Girls are dying.
Ryker opened the spiral-bound notebook that was labeled 2006. It was dog-eared and ragged, stuffed with sticky notes and scraps of lined paper. Ryker gave a quick nod of thanks to Mike for sharing Anne-Marie with him. She was good. It would have taken him days to find the entry on his own. He turned to the flagged page.
Finding the entry was one thing. Deciphering it was another thing entirely. It was six lines in the middle of the page, dated October 26, 2006.
Ryker made out the name Daisy Howard, and the name Phillips. He studied the smudged scribbling. Damn Phillips. He’d used a pencil.
9:30. Call fm A. Moser. Daughter dead. Blames us. Didn’t try. Raving. Not much sense.
Then two lines that were completely indecipherable, except for the word nutcase.
“Great,” Ryker said in disgust. “Thanks, Phillips.”
“What now?” Nicole leaned over to look at the notebook. Her arm and the side of her breast pressed against his arm. He swallowed.
“I can’t read Phillips’s writing. Hell of a lot of good that’s going to do me.”
“Let me see.” Instead of taking the notebook from his hand, she leaned even closer.
Ryker didn’t move a muscle, afraid if he did she’d back away. But what little information he’d gleaned from the transcripts were fast melting in the heat that was building inside him.
“Nine-thirty. Call from A. Moser. Daughter dead a year now. Blames us. Didn’t try. Raving. Not much sense.”
“Yeah, I got that much.”
Nicole angled her head and shot him a look, then went back to the note. “L-S-T. Y-R. Last year.” She took the notebook from him and held it at different angles. “Her B-D-A-Y. Birthday. And I think this is M-G-G or M-Y-Y.” She pointed.
Ryker remembered what Mike had said. “It’s MGG. Mugging.”
“Okay.” Nicole placed her forefinger on the page and indicated each word. “Nine-thirty. Call from A. Moser. Daughter dead a year now. Blames us. Didn’t try. Raving. Not much sense. Last year. Her birthday. Mugging. I-MO—in my opinion, guy’s a nutcase.”
Ryker pulled his notebook from his pocket. “Say it again so I can write it down. Next time I look at that mess I won’t remember what it said.”
She repeated it and he wrote it down word for word. “Great, thanks.”
“How about the last one?”
Ryker saw the flag Anne-Marie had stuck on the page for October 26 of 2005, but when he turned to the page, he found a sticky note from her.
Ryker. I couldn’t find an entry of a phone call from Moser in this log. I looked thoroughly, but you might want to double-check. Anne-Marie.
Nicole leaned in farther, and Ryker was sure he could feel the outline of her nipple against his biceps. She read the note aloud. “That’s the year his daughter was killed. It would make sense that he wouldn’t call on that day, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” Ryker had to move. Either that or he was going to turn and pull Nicole to him and kiss her senseless. That was how crazy her breast pressed against his arm was making him. He sat up and tossed the transcript onto the coffee table, then ran a hand through his hair. “I wish he’d mentioned where she was killed.”
“You know it wasn’t in St. Tammany.”
“I do know that. But that leaves Tangipahoa, Orleans, Jefferson—” He let his head drop back against the couch cushion.
“You’re going to talk to Moser, aren’t you? He can tell you where she was killed.”
“Yeah, if he doesn’t fill me full of buckshot first. The man’s angry. And despite the fact that Phillips thinks everybody’s a nutcase but him, I’d be willing to bet that this time, he wasn’t exaggerating.”
Chapter Eight
Nicole frowned at Ryker, who was rubbing his eyes tiredly. “You don’t really think Moser will shoot you if you go to see him, do you?”
Ryker looked up at her and smiled. “Worried about me?”
“Yes. Of course I am. Why can’t you send some policemen to pick him up and bring him in?”
“I need to approach him carefully. I’d rather not upset him any more than I have to. I hope I can gain his trust, make him understand that I’m doing my best to catch this killer.”
Nicole touched his arm. His biceps were firm, the skin warm and vibrant under her fingers. She pushed the memory of his lean, strong body molded to hers out of her head. “You’re a good man,” she said.
He looked at her, the intense blue of his eyes igniting like a flame of pure oxygen. “Just doing my job,” he murmured, dipping his head slightly.
She licked her suddenly dry lips and his gaze flickered toward her mouth, lingering there. She stepped closer.
He drew in a sharp breath, then bent his head and brushed her lips with his, so lightly it might not have been his lips at all. It might have been nothing more than his breath.
She waited for him to kiss her again, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked down, then lifted his head.
Just doing my job.
She understood. Because she was the same way. Doing a job well required focus. And focus and distraction didn’t go together.
“Can you take a break?” she whispered with a small smile.
Two lines appeared between his brows. “Not while your protection is my responsibility.”
“You’re way too serious. You are protecting me 24/7 by just being here.”
His jaw flexed and she reached up to soothe the tense muscle with her fingertips. Then she lifted her head and kissed him.
It took him a second or two to respond, but he did, and his response took her breath away. He pulled her to him and pushed the robe off her shoulders, then caressed her body with his large warm hands just as he caressed her mouth, cheeks and neck with his lips.
He guided her into the bedroom and laid her down on the bed while he shed his own clothes. Then he joined her, pressing his length against her. She shivered at the feel of his warm body touching every inch of hers.
“You’ve got to quit using that watermelon stuff,” he whispered, “because even though I know this is a really bad idea, I can’t resist it.”
Nicole decided not to be offended by his declaration that making love with her was a really bad idea. She chose to interpret his words as concern that getting caught up in lovemaking might compromise her safety.
As they kissed and explored each other’s body, Nicole’s doubts dissolved in the sweet flood of desire that enveloped her. Her body softened, opened, readied itself to take him in. His fingers and tongue drove her closer and closer to climax.
Finally she sat up and pushed him down onto his back. He looked surprised.
“My turn,” she whispered as she straddled him. She felt her face burn in embarrassment at her bold move, but he brushed her warm cheek with his fingertips and smiled at her.
Bending until she could reach his lips, she kissed him deeply, intimately, and pressed her bare breasts against his chest. She could feel his breathing quicken. His hands traced her thighs and slid up to her waist as he ground himself against her, groaning with pleasure. He lifted her to what she felt was a dizzying height, then lowered her onto his hard, pulsing erection.
She tried to keep control, but her body melted into climax too quickly. Ryker thrust upward again and again, until she cried out. Then he guided her as her limbs gave way and she crumpled. He tucked her against his side and rested her head on his shoulder.
His palm slid slowly up and down her arm and he planted a kiss on top of her head.
As she lay there, reality began to creep back into her brain. And slinking in around behind reality were the doubts. She grimaced, trying to push away the doubts and regain the sense of perfect communion and safety that she’d felt while they were making love.
But as had been true all her life, any time she began to believe in safety, began to depend on it, it was snatched away from her like a rug jerked out from under her feet.
Her reality was chaos and fear. The chaos of life on a downward spiral. The fear that each day brought her closer to abandonment.
Even though she fit perfectly against Ryker’s body with her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, she would never fit into his world. His was a life of family, home, security. She could daydream about those things, but she knew when all this was over, he’d go back to his life, and all she’d be was a victim he’d sworn to protect.
The differences in them created a wall around her heart. She wasn’t trying to build it up, but still it grew, brick by brick, row by row. By the time this case was done, it would be impenetrable.
Ryker stirred and Nicole pulled away, thinking he wanted to turn over and go to sleep. But instead, he doubled a pillow under his head and touched her chin with his fingertip, urging her head up.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” She took a deep breath and yawned.
“You ready to go to sleep? I’ll go back to the couch.”
“No.” She’d answered way too fast. Needy. Desperate. All the things she never wanted to be. “No. I’m not sleepy,” she said more casually.