Guns and Roses

by Brennan, Allison; Armstrong, Lori G. ; Tabke, Karin; Causey, Toni McGee; St. Claire, Roxanne; Brown, Josie; Littlefield, Sophie; Griffin, Laura; James, Lorelei; Day, Sylvia

“I’ll be right with you.”

  “Take your time.”

  She whirled around at the familiar voice. A wave of excitement washed over her as Colin stepped up to the counter.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

  He looked her up and down with that glint in his eyes she’d been thinking about for months. “I was in town.” He glanced around the tiny shop, which was wall-to-wall bouquets. “Just thought I’d drop in, see if you were busy.”

  He stepped closer, and Holly’s pulse picked up. He was wearing the leather jacket she remembered. His hair was a bit longer, but he’d shaved recently. For her? The possibility made her nerves flutter.

  The corner of his mouth curled up in a smile. “Are you?”

  “What’s that?” She walked around the counter and tried to wipe the grin off her face. She heard a noise behind her and knew her sister had come into the showroom.

  “Are you busy?”

  “Well, it’s February thirteenth, so… yes, we’re a little busy.”

  “I can finish up, if you need to take off.”

  Holly turned to see Heather standing in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest. Obviously, she recognized Colin—probably because Holly had mentioned him a time or ten during the past several months.

  Heather disappeared into the back room and emerged with Holly’s purse and coat.

  “Thanks.” Holly took her things and there was an awkward moment as Colin helped her into her coat. He held the door for her and they stepped out into the bitter chill.

  “So.” Holly looked up and down the street. It was only five, but already getting dark. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “You were just… in town?”

  “Not really.” He set a brisk pace beside her as they headed for the corner. Did he want to go to a bar? A restaurant? She didn’t care—she was just happy to see him. He’d been in contact since the day of Sheriff Slater’s arrest, but it had all been very businesslike.

  This felt different.

  “So, you weren’t really in town, you just…?” She looked up at him expectantly.

  “I came to see you.” He stopped walking, and warmth flooded her as he gazed down at her with those dark brown eyes. “I wanted to give you something.”

  He took her hand and folded something into it. She looked down at her palm.

  “A bullet?”

  “The shell casing from the bullet that missed you. Well, one of them, anyway.”

  She looked up at him, puzzled.

  “The sheriff took a plea. He’s going to testify against Lopez in exchange for a lighter sentence. Slater isn’t going to trial, so you won’t be asked to testify.” He stepped closer and the look in his eyes made her heart thump faster. “You’re no longer an official part of my case. It’s not even mine anymore. I’ve been re-assigned.”

  “So, you came here to—”

  He leaned down and kissed her. She felt a jolt of heat as his fingers combed into her hair and she tasted his mouth for the first time. He was hot and strong and—amazingly— as hungry for the kiss as she was. He had been waiting, too. She could tell by the way he pulled her against him and didn’t hold back. Holly didn’t, either. She melted right against him and held on tight. He smelled even better than she remembered and an entire winter’s worth of longing crackled to life inside her. He’d come all the way here. For her. And the idea of that was almost as intoxicating as his kiss.

  He pulled back and gazed down at her. “I’ve wanted to do that for months.”

  She smiled. “You have?”

  “Ever since I watched you stand in the middle of that road and take aim at that tire. It was an amazing shot.” He took her hand. “You’re an amazing woman, you know that?”

  Her smile turned into a grin.

  “So, if you’re not busy tonight—”

  “I am.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him. “I’m busy with you.”

  *****

  LAURA GRIFFIN

  New York Times bestselling author Laura Griffin started her career in journalism before venturing into the world of romantic suspense. Her acclaimed novels have won various awards, including a 2010 RITA Award for Whisper of Warning and a 2010 Daphne du Maurier Award for Untraceable. Laura’s popular Tracers series continues in 2012 with Twisted (April 17) and Scorched in the fall. Visit Laura at www.lauragriffin.com.

  Allison Brennan

  ABOVE REPROACH

  Chapter One

  “The victim is Ashley Young,” the responding officer, Sampson, told me as I approached. It was officially Tuesday morning: 12:02 a.m.

  I recognized Sampson from the station, but never worked a case with him. “We found her purse over there.” He gestured toward the Dumpster near where the alley and walkway intersected. He handed me her California driver’s license. Ashley was twenty-four, five feet five inches tall, one hundred ten pounds, blond hair and blue eyes.

  Pretty and blond, just the way Greg Keller—a.k.a. “the River City Rapist”—liked his prey.

  I stuffed my hands back into the pockets of my wool coat. The fog had thickened after the sunset, penetrating my bones. The fog layer was supposed to keep the rain away, but the ground had been wet after a week of this unending dreariness. Usually, I liked the gray; tonight it was simply depressing.

  “Why are we still in the alley?”

  “Ms. Young started to panic when I suggested we go to the car. My partner fetched the blanket for her.” His tone was a bit defensive. My reputation preceded me once again.

  “Good,” I said, hoping to smooth the relationship. I was known as the stereotypical bitch cop. The reputation wasn’t wholly warranted; it stemmed from a couple cases early in my career. But like the game of telephone, truth became distorted in the repeated telling.

  I said, “Check on the ambulance, would you please? The paramedics should be here by now.”

  Sampson stepped aside and got on his radio.

  Ashley watched me as I approached. I showed her my badge. “I’m Detective Selena Black with Sac P.D. It’s my job to find the guy who did this.”

  She just stared, and I feared she was going into shock. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, the blanket tucked firmly under her chin, and when I stepped closer, she pulled away, rubbing against the filthy brick wall that reeked of urine and garbage, pulling herself into a tighter ball.

  I needed to give her a moment to feel comfortable with my presence, and then I’d start asking questions.

  The poorly lit corridor where she’d been attacked was long and narrow—made for walking, not driving—connecting the alley with the street. The businesses here were all closed; only the bars were open past ten. The fog turned what little light we had into halos surrounding the lamps. The damp air would get thicker, making evidence collection next to impossible if we waited much longer.

  The sign for The Sweet Tooth with its colorful lollipop logo against the gray employee entrance didn’t fit the scene beneath it: a young woman huddled under a scratchy wool blanket in the corner, shaking and trying to convince herself that none of this had happened. My older brother, John, and I used to harvest change from under the cushions of our couch—planted there, we knew, by Dad’s cop friends—and spent it at this same candy shop.

  Old Sacramento is best known as home of the Jazz Festival (called the Crime Festival for those of us who work overtime Memorial Day weekends.) Old Sac boasted a real paddleboat that doesn’t run, and a steam train that does. When I was little, on Sundays after church, John and I explored every store, alley, and nook in the square half-mile that made up Old Sac while my dad hung out at the sports bar. Dad wasn’t a drinker, but he liked the crowd, which ran toward cops and cop groupies. He and his buddies from the beat would share war stories or just watch the game, mostly rooting for the Raiders or the ‘Niners, or for the Giants in spring. Sometimes, he’d find a girlfriend, but that never lasted. Once I asked him why he never remarried after Mom died. He’d simply sai
d, “I still love her.”

  I grew up on F Street, two blocks from where Dorothea Puente killed nearly a dozen people for their social security and disability checks—jogging distance from the crime scene where I now stood. The sports bar my dad had frequented closed more than a decade ago, but the back entrance was in this corridor, now leading employees into The Moon and Stars, a New Age gift shop.

  “Ashley.” I kept my voice firm, but quiet. She needed to believe that I was tough enough to protect her, but not threatening or chastising. Too many rape victims started their story with variations on it’s all my fault, even when they were brutally attacked. “I’m not going to leave you. The ambulance is on its way; you’re safe now.”

  Greg Keller was a crafty bastard who had two traits that had kept him out of prison: street smarts and connections. Being the son of a wealthy Sacramento family wasn’t the biggest problem in my case. Keller was also a high-ranking lawyer with the Attorney General’s Office—that was the major sticking point. Circumstantial evidence, of which I had plenty, wasn’t enough to give me the arrest warrant I desperately needed.

  I had proof that Keller attended the same political and charity fundraisers that his victims attended the nights they were attacked. The events were at a variety of different venues, but all were either downtown or the adjoining Old Sac. The victims were all blond, under thirty, and had been at a bar immediately after the event. And, each victim had “lost” something of value at the bar—a cell phone, planner, file, silk scarf. My theory was that Keller found a way to palm the item and leave it on the bar when the bartender was busy or distracted. There was no guarantee the victim would return the same night, or that they would return alone, but the odds were in Keller’s favor that the majority of his targets would come back, and some of them would be alone. It had to be a game to him, the anticipation and waiting to see which of his prey would walk into his trap.

  My one positive ID of Keller had been tossed by the judge as prejudicial, and I couldn’t get a warrant without something rock solid. I’d already been warned by the powers that be that every “t” must be crossed and every “i” dotted before I locked Keller behind bars.

  I hoped this latest victim could turn the key.

  Ashley had a cut across her face, as did the other victims, a sick memento from her attacker. An excellent plastic surgeon could fix it and leave the cheek with little to no scarring, but it would take months—or longer—to heal. As if the pain he’d left her with wasn’t enough, she now had to look in the mirror every day and see his mark. Remember and live in fear, because that’s what her rapist wanted — her fear.

  Some serial rapists take mementoes—like the victim’s underwear or a lock of their hair—but I suspected Keller marked his victims so when he saw them in public, he could remember what he’d done to them. I wanted to cut the dick off the bastard.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ashley repeated.

  “I know,” I lied.

  I’d faced rape victims before—on the streets, in the hospital, in the mirror. If I told her she was a fucking mess, she’d put up an impenetrable shield and deny it until Hell froze, giving me shit to work with to nail the devil who’d done this to her and four other women.

  What she needed was a long, hot shower followed by a long, hot soak in the bathtub with three bars of Irish Spring and a bottle of tequila—to clean and to forget.

  But it was my job to make sure she didn’t get that peace for the next few hours. It was my job to get her to the hospital. To make sure the rape kit went into evidence and nag the lab to process it. To take her statement and make her remember every awful minute of her trauma. She had to suffer so I could stop this prick. I didn’t like it, but it had to be done.

  Though Ashley was the fifth known victim of the River City Rapist, I suspected there were more who hadn’t come forward, who’d opted for the soap and tequila to kill the pain along with the evidence. But he was escalating, becoming more violent. A simple rape was no longer enough to get his rocks off, he now had to cut and demean his victims.

  “I know you were raped,” I said, breaking a million protocols. She hadn’t told anyone she was raped. I could see she was on the verge of denying it, and if she didn’t let me in, I wouldn’t have anything to work with.

  I squatted next to her. “Are you hurt?” Stupid question. Of course she was hurt, but I needed to know if she had any life threatening injuries.

  “He raped me,” she whispered.

  “I know.” I looked her over, but the way she was sitting, all bunched in a ball, I couldn’t see any part of her body except her face. “Are you hurt anywhere other than your face?”

  She didn’t move to touch her cheek. “He said he wanted me to remember him,” she said in a monotone.

  My cell phone vibrated and I glanced at the caller ID, thinking it might be Sampson or his people who were canvassing the area.

  Dr. Gabriel Storm.

  I pocketed my phone, not needing the distraction (though very much wanting that particular distraction) and focused on Ashley.

  The officer said, over the radio, “The ‘bus is here.”

  I told her, “The ambulance is here. I’ll go with you to the hospital.”

  Ashley shook her head. “I don’t want to go to the hospital. I just want to go home. Puh-please.”

  I squatted next to her, close, but not touching. I wanted to give her a minute to know she was safe now. Quietly, I said, “Quick stop at the hospital, then I’ll take you home. Okay?”

  I needed something from Ashley—anything to shake at a judge to get a warrant for Greg Keller.

  “Ashley, did you see your attacker?”

  She shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “A glance.”

  “What did you see in that glance?”

  “He was white.” Same description as the other victims, and too damn vague to help. White victims were more likely to be raped by a white offender. “Can you remember anything else? His voice? A tattoo? Something familiar about him?”

  I wanted to show her Greg Keller’s picture, but his lawyer would argue that I planted the image of Keller in her mind during a susceptible moment.

  I’d already done it once, with the third victim and got bitch-slapped by Keller’s asshole attorney who successfully got the entire identification suppressed, and the judge rejected the line-up I had planned with Keller. The victims may not be able to identify his face, but he’d spoken to them. No line-up without more evidence. There was a leak in the D.A.’s office, and the D.A. himself was pissed off, but could do nothing about it except tell me to get something solid and he’d get me the warrant any time of day or night. My lieutenant told me one more fuck up and I’d be off the case.

  I hadn’t done anything wrong. It was a grey area, but I was within my rights. I’d figured out the rapist’s M.O. after the second victim and pulled the guest lists of the events they’d attended. There were over a dozen white men between twenty-five and forty—the basic profile of the rapist—and I’d printed all their pictures to show the two victims. But they hadn’t seen their rapist and couldn’t ID any of them. I had the pictures with me when called to the third attack crime scene; Keller happened to be on top and she ID’d him.

  I couldn’t lose this case. If I didn’t stop Greg Keller, other women would suffer. It had to stop, and it would stop at Ashley Young.

  I heard the gurney from the ambulance bumping down the stone alley. Finally.

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” Ashley pleaded. “My mom—she can’t know. My work—oh, God, they can’t know!” Ashley wasn’t crying, but her voice had that edge that told me she’d be hysterical if I screwed this up, and hysterical rape victims couldn’t give me what I needed to do my job.

  “Ashley,” I said, “I’m on your side. We’re here to help you.”

  The tears came. Quiet tears, dropping into her lap. She rocked herself.

  The EMT pushed the gurney next to
me. A light drizzle began. So much for the rain holding off. “Keep the clothes, the blanket, everything,” I said.

  “I know the drill, Detective.”

  Ashley averted her head, a rumble of pain coming from her throat. “What’s your name?” I whispered to the EMT.

  “Adam Harper.”

  I squatted again in front of Ashley. “This is Adam. He’s not going to hurt you. He’s going to make sure you’re warm and safe. I’ll stay with you, okay?”

  She didn’t object when Adam shined a light into her eyes, but they had a wild feral look, like she was ready to bolt.

  “Look at me, Ashley. Any detail you can remember is important. Where were you before the attack?”

  She hesitated and seemed confused, then nodded slowly. “I was at Fat Annie’s with friends from work.” Fat Annie’s was a local bar and grill, about two blocks from this corridor.

  “What about earlier in the evening? After you left work?”

  “The Railroad Museum. We had an event there—I worked the door.”

  “What kind of event?” My pulse quickened. This was Keller’s exact profile.

  Adam tried to remove the blanket to examine her, but she whimpered and looked panicked.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “Let Adam—”

  She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “We all walked back to the parking lot together; then I got in my car and couldn’t find my cell phone. I went back, and then this guy grabbed me and pulled me in here. He held me from behind. I wanted to scream, but he had a knife. He showed me, right in my face, and I froze. He said he’d cut my throat and I believed him.”

  The story was pouring out, and though it was disjointed, I knew it was the truth.

  I’d heard a similar tale far too many times. The lost cell phone. Retracing steps. The attack.

  “You said you got a look at him?”

  “And he ripped my sweater,” she said without answering my question. “And he had a knife. He c-c-cut off my bra and I thought someone would walk by. Someone would stop him—he pushed me down on my knees, he told me—told me I was a-a bitch in heat.” Tears continued rolling down her dirty face while the EMT put a loose bandage over the cut on her face.