by Maggie Price
“I can’t do it, Captain Harris,” A.J. said, forcing a calmness into her voice that she was far from feeling. “You’ll have to get someone else.”
A large, well-molded hand hit the desk in front of her with a sharp slap. Beneath his gray military-issue crew cut, John Harris gave her a blistering stare. “This isn’t a democracy, A.J. You’ll work where you’re assigned. What the hell’s gotten into you?”
She tightened her grip on the arms of her chair. “Nothing. I got behind on my work when I was on emergency leave—I can’t even see the top of my desk,” she improvised. “The deadline on my divisional budget is a week away. I’ve got two homicides from other departments to review for suspect profiles.”
Harris rubbed his chin. “E-mail me ballpark figures on your budget, and I’ll take it from there. Tell those other departments if they need their cases reviewed any time soon to find another profiler. That’ll ease your workload.”
A.J. took a deep breath. After that morning’s encounter with Michael Ryan in Homicide’s file room, she’d taken an early lunch in a futile attempt to calm her nerves. She’d barely gotten back to her office when Captain Harris’s secretary called, saying the boss wanted to see her, pronto. She’d come to his office with an unexplainable sense of trepidation hanging over her, and she’d been dead right to feel that way.
Why was it the harder she tried to distance herself from Michael Ryan, the closer he got?
“My aunt’s in the hospital,” she continued. “She’ll be there a couple of weeks. I’m the only family she has now. I need to be with her in the evenings. Captain, you know what the hours are like when a task force is up and running. It’s not a question of when you’ll get home at night, it’s if.”
Harris nodded. “I’ll see that your schedule’s flexible enough for you to spend a few hours with her every evening. How does that suit you?”
“It doesn’t,” A.J. blurted. “I just think...” She shoved a hand through her hair. “Dammit, why did the Westfall woman have to get herself murdered?”
“I doubt that was the evening she planned for herself,” Harris commented dryly, inspecting her with narrowed-eyed intensity. “We’re wasting time here, A.J. Cut the bull and tell me what the hell’s your problem.”
“All right,” she said, straightening in her chair. “I doubt there’d be a positive aspect of your assigning me to the Westfall task force.”
Harris rose slowly, two hundred pounds of sculpted bulk clad in a uniform so sharply creased it looked like granite. He planted both palms on his desk and leaned toward her. “You suddenly develop a talent for speaking in tongues? You got something to say, say it.”
She diverted her gaze to the shadowbox of military medals and ribbons displayed on the wall behind the desk. In the five years she’d worked for the fire-and-brimstone commander she had completed every assignment wholeheartedly and on the double. She’d never balked. Until now.
“I’m not sure I can work with Lieutenant Ryan.” She set her jaw. She’d always prided herself on her professionalism, on her completion of any project, any assignment. Now, she sounded like a spoiled child. But she couldn’t help it.
The furrows in Harris’s weathered face deepened into a scowl. “There something personal going on between you and Mike?”
“No.”
“He make a pass and you turn him down? Is that what this is about?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
Harris leaned further across the desk. “The department didn’t spend all that money having you trained by the FBI just so you can get stubborn when someone steps on your toes.”
“I know that—”
“Doesn’t sound like it. Pay attention, A.J., while I make things clear. One,” he said, jabbing a hole in the air with a thick index finger. “Dianna Westfall was the widow of a world-famous cardiologist. Two, she ran this city’s social circles. Three, she was good friends with the chief’s wife.”
A.J. pressed back into the chair’s hard upholstery. If Harris’s face got any redder, he might explode.
“Four! I just spent half an hour with the chief. He was tossing orders like rice at a wedding. McMillan wants a task force headed by Mike Ryan. Until further notice, you work for Mike—at Mike’s request.”
“Joan Allison can work in my place. I’ve trained her. She’s got the makings of a good profiler—”
“You, A.J. Mike asked for you.” Mouth set into a tight line, Harris resettled into his chair. “Chiefs orders, A.J. You refuse the assignment, consider yourself suspended.”
“Suspended?” she squeaked.
“Glad to know whatever’s affected your brain hasn’t done the same to your hearing.” Harris pulled a sheet of paper toward him and grabbed a pen. “The task force meets in the chiefs conference room at two o’clock. You going to be there?”
A.J. sat in silence, her stomach roiling. She’d spent years clawing her way to the top, prided herself on her hard-earned reputation as an expert in suspect profiling. Now, thanks to Michael Ryan, she might have to kiss it all goodbye.
“Well?”
Harris had her up against a wall, and he knew it. “I’ll be there.”
He gave a grunt of satisfaction and jotted a note. “I’ll write up authorization for you to park in the underground garage for the duration.” He sent a placating smile across the precisely ordered desk. “That’ll save you from having to walk to the employee lot after dark.”
“Fine,” she said tightly and rose.
Harris’s scowl returned. “Dammit, A.J., I know things haven’t been easy for you lately—first Ken’s suspension, then his death...your aunt’s health. I don’t like getting tough with you, but when you see how the Westfall woman died, you’ll understand. The guy butchered her. We haven’t officially released the victim’s name because not all her family’s been notified, but the media’s heard enough over their scanners to know somebody got murdered in that mansion last night. They’re hovering like flies over roadkill, demanding to know who it was and when we’ll make an arrest. The governor called McMillan and asked the same questions. Homicide’s got zero suspects. This case’ll be a nightmare, even with our top people on it.”
“I’ll do my best,” A.J. said stiffly. “You know I’ll do my best.”
“Yeah, I know,” Harris said, his voice quiet. “You always do.” Cocking his head, he tapped his pen against the desk’s polished surface. “You can’t be on the outs with Mike Ryan and expect to accomplish much. Whatever’s the problem, talk with him and reach some kind of understanding.”
A.J. understood all right. She hadn’t convinced Ryan of her innocence. Where better to have her, but assigned to his task force, under his thumb? She sat in silence, feeling her anger build. Ryan might have her in his icy blue sights, but that didn’t mean she would sit around, waiting for him to toss another piece of incriminating evidence in her face. Somehow, someway, she had to find out what Ken had gotten involved in.
And she would. By God, she would.
A.J. walked into the chief’s conference room at two o’clock sharp. The noise level was deafening. A mix of uniformed officers, lab techs and suited detectives filled the room, some standing in small groups, a few already seated around the long conference table.
Michael Ryan was nowhere in sight.
A.J. slid into a chair at the far end of the table and opened the leather folder she’d brought with her to jot down notes.
“You’re A.J., aren’t you?”
She glanced up at a tall, slim female police officer with a delicately contoured face and thick platinum-frosted hair caught into a loose braid. A glance at the brass name tag over the left pocket of her form-fitting uniform shirt displayed the name St. John.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Helene St. John,” she said as she slid into the chair beside A.J.’s. She inclined her head toward a thin, lanky officer who took a seat beside her. “This is my partner, Kevin Stoner.”
“I know Kevin,” A
.J. said as she leaned forward to look past Helene. As always, the patrol officer had one cheek stuffed with a wad of tobacco that made him look as though he was storing nuts for the winter. A.J. smiled. “How are you, Kevin?”
“Fine, except I can’t figure out why Helene and I wound up on this task force.”
Helene rolled her dark kohl-lined eyes. “We were the first uniforms on the scene. Remember?”
“We’ve arrived before anyone else on a hell of a lot of scenes,” Kevin observed, then spit a blob of tobacco into the disposable cup he’d brought with him. “This is the only time we’ve wound up with our butts assigned to a task force. If I wanted a desk job, I’d have been an accountant.”
Helene shrugged. “If you must know, I called the chiefs office and volunteered us.”
Kevin blanched. “Why the hell did you do an idiot thing like that?”
“Figure it out, Sherlock. You saw those pictures at the mansion. Dianna Westfall getting a kiss on the cheek from the governor. Schmoozing with the mayor. This is the type of assignment that’ll get us noticed. And promoted.”
“And working overtime every damn night,” Kevin grumbled. “Hell, if it doesn’t get solved fast, we’ll be here Christmas.”
Helene jerked on the collar of her uniform shirt. “Maybe you’re content to drive around the rest of your life wearing one of these damn monkey suits, but not me.” She shrugged, then looked back at A.J. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to work with you for a long time.”
A.J. blinked. “With me?”
“Sure. You’re one of the best suspect profilers around. That’s an area I’d like to get into: I figure I can learn a lot from you.”
A.J. nodded, wondering vaguely why the officer hadn’t bothered coming by her office to discuss the subject.
Helene leaned in. “This might not be the right time to bring this up, but I want to say how sorry I am about Ken.”
“Thanks,” A.J. said, feeling the familiar tug at her heart that came with the mention of her brother. “Did you work with him?”
“I was on his shift before I transferred to days.” Helene dropped her voice a fraction. “It’s hard to believe the chief busted Ken from detective back to patrol. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, I’ll grant you that, but even a first-day rookie could figure out that girl lied about Ken raping her.”
“I know she did,” A.J. said quietly. “Problem was, it was his word against hers.”
“Yeah,” Helene agreed. “If I’d been Ken, that would have cured me of ever talking to another suspect—or victim for that matter—without some sort of witness to back me up.”
Unless you had something to hide, A.J. thought miserably, and dropped her gaze. What had Ken been hiding?
“Something wrong?” Helene asked.
“No.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks,” A.J. said, forcing a smile. “It’s just hard to talk about Ken.”
The officer regarded her for a thoughtful moment, then glanced toward the far end of the table. “My, my, McMillan sure has called in some big guns on this.”
A.J. followed Helene’s gaze to the petite lab-coated woman who’d just taken a seat near the head of the table. Sky Milano headed forensic services. Her assignment to the task force confirmed that the chief had pulled out all the stops for the Westfall case.
A.J. expelled a resigned breath. It was time to get down to business. She looked back at Helene and Kevin. “So, what kind of crime scene do we have?”
“A hell of a bloody one,” Kevin responded. “The maid freaked when she discovered the body. Went running up and down the sidewalk, screaming Spanish at the top of her lungs. A neighbor called 911.”
Helene shifted onto one hip and slid a notepad from the back pocket of her uniform trousers. “Definitely a bizarre scene. The house wasn’t trashed—nothing out of place. Same for the master bedroom, except the bed. It was a war zone. The body looked like something you’d find in a butcher shop—”
“And that finger,” Kevin chimed in. “There it was, propped against this lacy-looking pillow.” He crooked his index finger in the air and wiggled it in A.J.’s direction. “I can see Dianna Westfall now, pointing toward the champagne bottles on the bedside table, saying, ‘Darling, pour me another.’”
“He cut it off?” A.J. felt her interest rising, like a hound snuffling a trail. “The killer cut off her finger?”
“Hacked is more like it,” Kevin answered.
“Was it a defense wound?” A.J. asked. “Had she tried to protect herself from the knife and her hands got the brunt of it?”
Helene frowned and looked at Kevin. “I didn’t notice other damage to her hands. Did you?”
“Don’t think so,” Kevin replied. “Of course, once we saw the victim was past help, we backed out of the room so we wouldn’t contaminate the scene. It wasn’t like we got a real close look.” He inclined his head toward a group of detectives standing at the opposite side of the table. “It’s Sam Rogers and Grant Pierce’s case. After they showed up, all Helene and I did was stand guard at the front door.” He tapped his finger against the rim of the disposable cup. “One thing, though. While we were checking the place, I noticed beads of water in a downstairs shower. You got to figure the creep knows the drill. Looks like he cleaned himself up before he left,” Kevin added before spitting a plop of tobacco into the cup.
Helene’s eyes narrowed. “Get that disgusting thing the hell away from me, Stoner.”
Kevin gave A.J. a lopsided grin. “Dead bodies are okay, but let me have a chew and St. John here acts like Carry Nation in a barroom.”
A.J. scrunched her nose. “I don’t blame...” Her voice trailed off as the door swung open, admitting Chief McMillan and Captain Harris. Michael Ryan, looking somber—and broodingly handsome in his gray suit and crimson tie—followed them in.
“Everybody find a chair,” Harris rumbled. He stood at stiff attention near the head of the long table, scowling beneath his crew cut as if addressing boot-camp inductees. After everyone found a seat, he continued. “Chief McMillan has something to say before we get to work.”
A.J. arched a cynical brow, wondering how hard Harris had to fight the urge to salute when the chief stepped to his side.
“Until you hear different, each of you is assigned to the Westfall task force.”
A short, compact man with a voice that matched his crisp manner, Brian McMillan had backslapped his way to the chiefs office by avoiding politically nasty fights. Now, it was common knowledge he had his eye on the mayor’s job. Few doubted he’d make it.
McMillan’s neat silver hair glinted under the conference room’s recessed lights as he spoke. “Dianna Westfall was a fine, upstanding woman. She did not deserve to die, much less this way. I want you to find the person—or persons—who did this, and I want an arrest fast.”
If anyone doubted the chiefs seriousness, all he had to do was look around, A.J. thought. The elegant conference room was normally reserved for gatherings of high-level brass, visiting officials and press conferences. Its walls were papered; the plush sand-colored carpet could muffle the sound of a jackhammer. The expansive oak conference table was a glaring contrast to the scarred metal desks and battleship gray file cabinets that crowded the investigative offices. The previous task forces A.J. had been assigned to were shuffled into whatever cramped space was available at the time. That Chief McMillan had allowed them into his domain was a sure indication he planned to keep a close eye on their progress.
“Lieutenant Ryan is in charge,” McMillan continued. “He gives the orders. You take them.”
A.J.’s gaze tracked the chiefs to the spot by the door where Ryan stood. His face was unreadable, his expression somber. With his wide, erect shoulders and tall, trim athletic build, he looked capable of commanding an army.
At that instant he glanced down the length of the table, his blue eyes holding A.J.’s steadily. Her pulse scrambled.
She tore her gaze from his, her fingers curving into fists against the sudden escalation of her heart rate. How could one man stir such conflicting emotions in her? The part of her that was desperate to protect Ken told her to avoid Ryan at all costs. Yet her body’s unchecked reaction to his very presence had a dark, primitive appeal.
Helene leaned over. “Ryan’s one hell of a good-looking man,” she murmured. “This assignment is getting more interesting by the minute.”
“Any questions?” McMillan asked. The chief waited all of three seconds, then headed for the door, Captain Harris on his heels.
Ryan set his briefcase at the head of the table, his gaze slowly taking in the room’s occupants. “I imagine some of you aren’t happy with this assignment.”
Understatement, A.J. thought. On the opposite side of Helene, Kevin Stoner spit tobacco into his cup.
“Suffice it to say,” Ryan continued, “the quicker we get started, the sooner we’ll nail whoever did this. Then we can all go back to our regular jobs.” He looked at Sam Rogers, who’d squeezed into the vacant chair beside A.J. “Sam, have you and Pierce made your initial report?”
The overweight homicide detective with age spots peeking through his thin hair nodded as he pulled a stubby cigar from between his teeth. “Dictated it to a report clerk before we came up.”
“Still no witnesses?” Ryan asked.
“Not a blessed one,” Sam confirmed. “After I called you from the scene, Pierce and I had the uniforms do a door-to-door of the neighborhood. Nobody saw nothing.” Sam paused to roll ashes around a thick crystal ashtray. “The couple who live directly across the street are out of town. Won’t be back until late tonight.”
“Talk to them in the morning,” Ryan stated, then turned to Sky Milano. “Where do we stand on forensics?”
“I’ve got the bed linen from the scene in the lab,” the chemist answered, her expression as severe as the brown bun coiled at the nape of her neck. Sky pushed her horn-rimmed glasses higher on her nose and checked her notes. “So far I’ve got a few long auburn hairs. Probably the victim’s. I’ll be sure when I compare them with known samples. The ME has agreed to collect them while he has her on the table.”