Ambushed At Christmas. Barb Han

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СКАЧАТЬ seven inches tall. So was Leah.

      Jillian Mitchell had espresso-brown hair that had been in a ponytail last night. Same as Leah.

      Jillian Mitchell had a runner’s build, meaning she was pretty much all legs. Just like Leah. The killer had severed her right ankle before dragging her into the bushes.

      The flashback to high school when Leah’s best friend had been brutally murdered edged into her thoughts. Leah was supposed to sneak out to meet up. She’d fallen asleep instead. The crime had rocked their exclusive white-collar Arlington Heights neighborhood.

      Forcing her thoughts to the present, to the trail, she was grateful that lights had been set up in the normally dark stretch known as Porter’s Bend for the curvy pathway. That was a comfort. Leah tried to reestablish her pace. She had almost cleared the winding patch when she caught a glimpse of a man crouching near the brush. He was at the edge of the crime scene tape area and down on all fours. Even at this distance Leah could see that he had substantial size.

      Leah slowed to a walk but her heart pounded her ribs as though she’d turned up her speed. She assessed the situation and quickly realized there was no one else around. She bit back a curse as she palmed her cell. She started to fire off a text to dispatch, noting a suspicious person at the scene of Porter’s Bend.

      A mix of adrenaline and fear shot through her. Had the murderer returned to the crime scene? Was the person who’d attacked and murdered Jillian Mitchell digging in the shrubs?

      Reason argued against the notion. Only an idiot would come back this soon. The criminal who’d murdered Jillian didn’t strike Leah as stupid. He had to know tensions were running high after last night’s attack. People would be on the lookout for anyone or anything suspicious in the area and along the trail. Those were the reasons she’d used when she’d convinced herself to stick to her nightly routine and go on the run.

      If she’d been on time last night, it could’ve been her in the morgue and not Jillian Mitchell, a little voice in the back of her head stated. She couldn’t use rock music to block out the voice now.

      Leah’s fingers were as cold as ice cubes thanks to the frigid air. She flexed and released them a couple of times before placing her hand on the butt of her still-holstered weapon. She’d stick around until an officer arrived.

      Confronting this guy without backup would be taking an unnecessary risk. Leah decided it would be best to put enough distance between them to stay out of sight. As she eased back a few steps, the man popped to his feet and wheeled around to face her.

      She sidestepped behind a tree. Anything—even a tree trunk—between them would slow down a bullet if he had a gun. It might not provide complete protection but it was better than nothing.

      “Hold it right there,” she shouted, using the authoritative cop voice reserved for all threatening situations. “I’m a police officer. Don’t take one step closer. Hands where I can see them now.”

      “I’m not moving.” True to his word, he froze. His hands flew into the air, palms facing her. She scanned them for any signs of a weapon and could see that they were empty. Well, almost empty. On closer examination, he wore plastic gloves. A knot formed in her stomach, braiding her lining.

      Experience had taught her that empty hands didn’t mean there was no weapon present. A bullet had grazed her shin during her sophomore year as a patrol officer on a domestic violence call that had seemingly come out of nowhere. She tabled the glove-wearing part for now, careful not to reveal her suspicion that he was the Porter’s Bend Killer.

      “What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to steady her heart rate and keep a clear head.

      “Take it easy.” The man was tall. Six feet four inches if Leah had to guess. Through his unzipped denim jacket she could see that he worked out. His muscled thighs had stretched and released as he stood. His thick sandy blond hair was tightly clipped with curls at the edges. He was too far for her to see the color of his eyes but his face was all sharp angles, like the kind that looked a little too good on a billboard in a major city. He seemed familiar. Did she know him?

      “What are you looking for?” she asked, trying to dig for a little more information. If he was a criminal—and specifically the one her department was looking for—the more she got him talking, the more chances he had to make a slip.

      “My keys,” he said. His voice was masculine. The kind that sounded like it was used to being in charge of a situation.

      “What’s in your front right pocket?” she asked. “I see something.”

      “I, uh—” He didn’t glance down and that told her he knew exactly where his keys were. It wasn’t uncommon for a perp to return to the scene of a crime but normally they came with search parties when the victim was missing. Jillian Mitchell had very much been found.

      “Save the story.” She leveled her gaze on the man. “What are you really looking for?”

      “What did you say your name was?” he shot back.

      “I didn’t.”

      “Then we have nothing left to say.” He turned his back to her.

      There was no way she’d shoot without being provoked but this maneuver said he knew it.

      “Stop right there,” she warned.

      “And if I don’t?” he asked.

      “What are the gloves for?” She used her cop voice to show him just how serious she was.

      He froze.

      “You better start talking here unless you want to do it downtown. We can start with your name,” she continued.

      “It’s cold. These were all I had in the glove box,” he said.

      She didn’t immediately answer. He was being bold, challenging her. Perhaps he was an amateur crime solver or someone hired by the Mitchell family. They had money.

      Either way, this guy could be trampling on evidence.

      “Detective Cordon,” she relented, leaving off the bit about being a newly minted detective. She lowered her weapon. “Identify yourself now or they’ll do it for you at Tarrant County Jail.”

      He turned around and she nodded toward the badge clipped to the waistline of her jogging pants.

      His eyes lingered there a little longer than she was comfortable and heat flushed her cheeks. That was the great part about having skin the color of milk. It was near impossible to hide her emotions.

      “Deacon Kent,” he said. Why did that name sound familiar?

      “Do you have any knowledge of the crime committed here last night?”

      “Only what I read in the Fort Worth Star Telegram this morning.” His voice was calm.

      There could be benefits to publicity on a case. Leah didn’t like it in this instance. Stories spawned copycats and brought out all kinds of wackos. In Mr. Kent, she saw neither and that could mean he was close to Jillian Mitchell, looking for vigilante justice.

      This case set Leah’s nerves on edge. СКАЧАТЬ