Double-Edged Detective

by Mallory Kane

  When she opened her eyes, Ryker was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. She ran her palms down the front of the sweatshirt.

  “There are socks in the top drawer of my dresser if you want to get a pair.”

  She glanced toward his bedroom. “I can’t go into your drawers,” she said.

  He sent her an exasperated look. “Suit yourself.”

  Her toes curled on the chilly hardwood floor, convincing her that warm socks were more important than saving herself from the slight embarrassment of seeing his underwear drawer. She grabbed a pair of white-and-gray athletic socks and pulled them on. The heels rode up way past her ankles, but they were warm.

  When she came back into the front room, Ryker had two plates of eggs and two mugs of coffee on the table and was retrieving the toast from the toaster.

  Nicole sat down, spooned sugar into her coffee and took a long swallow. “Oh, that’s good,” she said.

  He sat down next to her and held out a plate of toast. She took a piece. “It’s not cappuccino,” he said.

  “It’s good,” she said around a mouthful of eggs. She polished off the food in no time.

  Ryker ate more slowly, watching her the whole time.

  By the time Nicole had finished her eggs and two pieces of toast and had a second cup of coffee, she was feeling much better. Her head was clearer and her thoughts were less scattered.

  As she swallowed the last drops of coffee, she thought about the time. “Oh, no! What time is it?” She looked toward the windows. “Is it after dark? I can get to the restaurant in time to help with the late diners and close up.”

  She vaulted up, the wooden chair legs squeaking across the hardwood floor. “Come on. We need to go by my apartment first so I can change clothes.”

  “No.”

  “What? Seriously, Ryker. I’ve got to get to work.”

  He glared at her.

  “You can’t just keep me here.”

  “I’m sure going to try. Sit down.”

  Nicole barely heard him. She glanced around the living room. “Where’s my purse? I need to call Job and let him know I’m on my way.”

  “Nic! Sit down!”

  She heard that. She dropped back into the chair, biting her lip. “You’re a bully,” she muttered.

  “Maybe so,” he snapped. “But I wouldn’t have to bully you if you’d listen to me. I talked to Job this morning, while Treehorn was interviewing you. My grandmother’s chef had a son who’s also a chef. The son retired a couple of years ago. I got my aunt Claire to call him. He’s agreed to fill in.” Ryker gave her a smile that looked a little smug. “So you don’t have to worry about Job and the restaurant.”

  Nicole stared at him, trying to process his words. She’d heard him, but the things he’d said seemed almost like a foreign language.

  His grandmother’s chef’s son would fill in for her. What kind of family had a personal chef? Much less have such influence that they could command someone to drop everything and rush to their aid.

  The Delanceys, obviously. Con Delancey had run Louisiana politics for years, and his wife, Lilibelle, had been wealthy in her own right. It was a wonder Ryker hadn’t recruited an army of Delancey family members or employees to bodyguard her.

  In her mind’s eye, Nicole watched as another few rows of bricks were laid on the growing wall between Ryker and her. She had no one, not friends, not even family, that she could call to her aid with no notice.

  She had nothing to offer him. She was so far out of his league that she wasn’t even in the same zip code as his league. Whatever she’d thought about in her deepest fantasies, whatever Cinderella story she’d subconsciously written in her head, she had to delete it and fast.

  There were no Delanceys in her future. And there were certainly no poor, scared Beckhams in his.

  “Nic?” Ryker’s voice penetrated her racing thoughts and she realized it wasn’t the first time he’d called her name. “What’s the matter? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She licked her lips and consciously tried to relax her aching jaw enough to give him a smile. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” She waved a hand. “Hire a chef, bully a victim. Anything to find your killer. It looks like you’re going to get what you wanted in the first place. You’ve got more money than King Midas. Why don’t you just hire a mover, find me a place in another state and plunk me down there, out of your way?”

  “Nic—”

  She held up a hand and shook her head. “No. Stop wasting your energy fighting with me about every little thing. I give up. You’re the boss. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “I’m not—”

  “And then when all this is over, I’ll go away. I’ll move—again—and start over again.” Her mouth curled in a wry smile. “It’s what I’m good at. But right now I am kind of tired. Let me wash these dishes before I fall asleep facedown in the eggs.”

  Ryker deftly scooped her plate up before she could get her hands on it. He sent her a brief smile. “What eggs?” he teased. “You ate every last crumb. I should have made more.”

  “That was perfect.” Perfect, just like everything he did. He was the perfect cop. The perfect egg-cooker. The perfect lover. And he’d never be hers.

  “Come on, I’ll put you to bed. The sheets are fairly clean,” he said apologetically. “You should be comfortable. I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  He gestured for her to precede him into the bedroom. Then he walked around her and turned down the carelessly draped comforter. He took a swipe at the sheets to smooth them.

  “I’ll be right out there on the couch.”

  “Are you sure Job will be okay?” she asked. “Maybe I should call him. I want to check on Merina.”

  “You can call him if you want, but he’s at the restaurant and everything is fine. He’s been showing Richard Tesch around the kitchen and getting ready for tonight. His wife passed the kidney stone and is back at home.”

  He turned to go again. As he reached for the light switch, she thought of something else.

  She was quiet for a moment, then, “Ryker? He must have been out there all night. He knew you were gone. He saw me get in my car. Do you think he was watching me all this time?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe since that article in the paper. He was definitely waiting to get you alone. Which reminds me, you’ll be working days for a while. You’ll act as sous chef for Richard, and I’ll pick you up around six. No more early mornings or late nights.”

  “He thinks I can identify him.”

  Ryker didn’t answer.

  “Could we get that reporter to say that I can’t?”

  “No,” he said quickly, then grimaced. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. I don’t want you mentioned in the newspaper again. Do you need anything?”

  You. “No.”

  “Get a good night’s sleep.” Ryker turned out the light and pulled the door closed until it was open just a crack. “Ryker?”

  He pushed the door open. “Yeah? You know you can’t go to sleep if you’re talking.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get into trouble. I wish I was brave—”

  “You are brave, Nic.” His voice was quiet. “Do you know how many people would have panicked if they’d driven off the road into a ditch? Not to mention if they had to work with a fire and rescue specialist to free themselves. Shel was very impressed with you.” He paused. “So am I.”

  Ryker impressed? She stared at his silhouette, backlit by the light from the living room.

  “Now go to sleep!”

  “Yes, sir.” As if ordering her would work. She’d been that close to dying. She doubted whether she’d ever be able to sleep again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ryker was going over Treehorn’s report and transcript of his interview of Nicole, which the detective had e-mailed him, when he saw a movement in the corner of his eye. He looked up. It was Nicole. She stood in the doorway of his bedroom dressed i
n his sweatshirt and socks, looking like a waif.

  “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  She spread her hands. “I don’t know. I can’t go to sleep. Every time I doze, I see that man standing above me, pointing a gun at me.”

  “Come here.” Ryker held out his hand.

  “I’m okay, I just—can’t get that image out of my head.”

  “Come on. Treehorn e-mailed me the transcript of your interview, and the final sketch the forensic artist did of the man who ran you off the road.”

  “Sure. That’ll help me sleep.”

  Ryker chuckled. “At least it’ll give you something to do.”

  She sat down beside him, pulling the hem of the sweatshirt as far down over her legs as it would go.

  Ryker watched her hands. She was covering up her nakedness under the sweatshirt. He’d been in the bathroom. He’d seen her delicate panties hanging on the towel rack, dripping water.

  He felt himself stir at the thought of her smooth, beautiful body covered only by his sweatshirt. Stir and grow hard. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to distract himself by concentrating on Treehorn’s interview questions and her answers. When that didn’t work he tried picturing her car sliding deeper down the muddy shoulder toward the ditch as a dangerous killer shot at her.

  It helped, a little.

  “Is that my interview?” she asked.

  He nodded, adjusting the laptop to hide his arousal. “You told Treehorn you didn’t recognize the man?”

  “I could barely see his face. He had on a dark hooded sweatshirt.”

  “Here’s the artist’s rendering of your description. You did a good job.” He clicked to open the file.

  “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t give very many details at all. Mostly what I saw was that gun.”

  “Take a look.” Ryker clicked and the face she’d described filled the screen.

  She laughed nervously. “He looks like that sketch of the Unabomber.”

  “Not really. Here’s the other sketch he did from your description. The full-length sketch.”

  When the computer-generated image of the man who’d tried to kill her rose on the screen, Nicole gasped. “Oh! He looked just like that.”

  The stocky man in dark baggy pants and a black hooded sweatshirt stood looking down and pointing a large handgun directly at the screen.

  “That’s him. I know you can’t tell much. But that’s exactly what he looked like before he pulled the trigger.”

  “You did a good job. We actually can tell a lot. We can see his build, his relative height. The fact that he’s Caucasian.”

  “The glasses aren’t quite right. The frames were bigger. Really big. The kind that older people wear. Like he hasn’t bought new glasses in a long time.”

  Ryker knew what she meant. A lot of men, including Detective Charles Phillips, wore those big old-fashioned glasses. He pulled up the interview again. He read her description. According to her, the man was medium height and rather stocky in build. She’d told Treehorn he seemed to be older, in his sixties.

  “You’re sure he’s in his sixties?” Ryker pointed at the screen.

  “Pretty sure.” She leaned closer to look at the computer, and her arm pressed against his.

  “How did you decide that?”

  She shrugged. “Well, the glasses. And the way he stood. The way he moved, I guess. He seemed a little bit bent over. Oh, and his hands looked old.”

  “That’s interesting. If he’s that age, he’s got to be pretty strong. I mean, he had surprise on his side when he attacked his victims, but the way he killed them took force. The usual profile would suggest a younger man, a loner and underachiever in an undemanding job.”

  “So he’s still not fitting the serial killer pattern. I guess I can see why your boss was so reluctant to let you link the cases. It’s a good thing he trusts you.”

  “Yeah, well.” Ryker laughed shortly. “He doesn’t so much. He still half believes I got stuck on the serial killer idea because of Bella.”

  “Bella?”

  Ryker bit his tongue, but it was too late. Damn it, that had slipped out. He hadn’t wanted Nicole to know that he’d known one of the victims.

  “Bella, the second victim? You knew her?”

  He had to tell her now. “We dated a couple of times, back in school. I was a sophomore at LSU and she was a grad student.”

  As he said the words, he felt her stiffen. By the time he’d finished, she was sitting up straight and he could feel the tension radiating from her.

  “I’m so sorry about your girlfriend,” she said. “I can see why you pursued this serial killer idea so relentlessly.”

  Ryker heard the pain in her voice. She’d obviously thought he was pursuing this case so relentlessly because of her. As the thought crossed his mind, he realized he’d become interested in the cases because he’d known Bella, but it was for Nicole’s sake that he was pursuing the killer so relentlessly.

  She’d never believe that. Never trust it—or him. It would have made a lot more sense to have come clean with her about Bella in the beginning. Certainly before they’d slept together. “Nic, she wasn’t my girlfriend. It was a few dates. Nothing serious, trust me.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  He held up his arm, hoping she’d sink into his side. She didn’t.

  “Listen to me. Of course I took an interest in the case because I knew one of the victims. And of course I’m sorry she was killed, but the couple of casual dates we had were eight years ago. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since then.”

  She nodded automatically. Damn it, she didn’t believe a word he said. He wanted to confess to her that while he was sad about Bella’s death, the very idea that Nicole might have been hurt had ripped a hole in his heart that would never heal until he could hold on to her forevermore, keeping her safe at his side.

  The unsettling direction his thoughts had taken sent his heart skittering into high gear. At that moment Nicole pushed away and rose. “I’d better get back to bed,” she said. “I’m so tired I’m not sure I’m making sense.”

  “Sure, hon. I know you need your sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Ryker watched her as she padded back into the bedroom. He listened until he heard a soft sigh and knew she was in bed and settled.

  Only then did he allow himself to replay his thoughts. Forever? Safe at his side? He wasn’t even thirty. His longest relationship had been a few months. He didn’t even want to add up how long it had been since he’d had sex, prior to sleeping with Nicole.

  So where had the concept of forever come from? Marriage, family, kids. Those were things his parents did. Things that existed in the haze of a far-off future.

  But they were things that had been creeping into his head ever since he’d met Nic.

  He had to stop them, because they couldn’t happen. Not now. Not yet. He was letting his hormones—or something—get in the way of the clear head and logic he needed to catch the October Killer.

  Maybe it was a good thing Nicole had misunderstood his reason for pursuing this case so relentlessly. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. He wanted to pull her into the protective circle of his arms, not push her away.

  Not watch her trust in him fade.

  He only hoped a spark of trust would remain inside her long enough for him to coax it back into a flame.

  After the October Killer was caught.

  THE NEXT MORNING Ryker had the Autumn Moser case file in his hands. He sat at his desk, going through the specifics. Autumn was killed at 11:00 p.m. on October 26, 2005, her twenty-first birthday, in an alley off Basin Street, near the St. Louis Cemetery.

  A bad neighborhood even in the daytime. What was she doing down there that time of night? He thumbed through the crime scene photos, the CSI and autopsy reports, until he got to the detective’s typed report.

  He skimmed it quickly.

  Cause of death was three gunshot wounds to the chest.

  Purse w
as spilled and her cell phone was missing.

  The scrapes on palms and knees, and mud spatter on her calves suggest she’d fallen while running. However, the entry wound places her face-to-face with her killer at near point-blank range.

  Ryker rubbed his temple. If it was a mugging, why would the mugger chase her? For that matter, why would she run, if he were holding a gun on her? And why had the mugger shot her?

  On the other hand, if it wasn’t a mugger, if it was his serial killer, had he taken her cell phone as a trophy? If so, why hadn’t he taken trophies from the other victims?

  He flipped the page to read the detective’s conclusions. Sure enough, his opinion was that Autumn Moser’s death was a homicide at the hands of a mugger.

  To be thorough, he flipped through every single page in the file. Toward the back, he found a statement from Christmas Leigh Moser, the victim’s sister, stating that she’d been talking to her sister, Autumn, on the phone, wishing her happy birthday, when her sister had screamed. Christmas Moser had heard what she described as gunshots through the phone line before it went dead.

  The information on the police report included Christmas Moser’s address and phone number. Ryker called the phone number.

  “Dr. Moser,” a low, husky voice answered.

  “Christmas Leigh Moser?” he asked.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “I’m Detective Ryker Delancey, St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Department, Ms.—Dr. Moser.”

  “Yes?”

  Her voice went up in pitch.

  “I apologize, Dr. Moser. I’m calling in regards to your sister’s death in 2005. Do you have time to talk for a few minutes?”

  “Can you hold a moment?” He heard her giving orders to someone, maybe a nurse, to change a dressing and increase the flow of an IV, and a couple of other things he couldn’t understand.

  “Now. Detective Delancey, is it? I can give you about three minutes. I’m making rounds on the pediatric ward here.”

  “I apologize for calling you out of the blue about this, but I’m looking into your sister’s death. I have a statement by you in the New Orleans Police Department case file on Autumn Moser that states that you spoke with her on the phone around 11:00 p.m. on the night of her death.”