Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy

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СКАЧАТЬ He took a brief moment to admire the curve of her butt in her tight jeans, the waist-length braided rope of thick hair that seemed to beg to be released from its binding. He cleared his throat, not liking the drift of his thoughts.

       She whirled around to face him. “I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t some sort of a mercy-killing element to these. He killed them and then tried to assure that they would have happy dreams through eternity. Were any of the women sick? Maybe terminally ill?”

       “According to the autopsy reports, both Mary Mathis and Gretchen Johnson were in perfect health, and of course we won’t know about Barbara Tillman until George performs the complete autopsy. I should have something from him by midday tomorrow.”

       She frowned. “Well, that shoots my potential initial theory right out the window.” She smiled. “But then it isn’t unusual for me to throw out several of my theories before settling on the one that’s right.”

       The room was too small and filled with that evocative scent of her. He was suddenly far too focused on her lips, which were covered with a nude, glossy lipstick. He should be thinking about the photos of the victims on the board, not the vibrant, beautiful woman in front of him.

       “Here are the files,” he said briskly and thrust them toward her. He wanted her gone, away from him. She unsettled him in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable.

       “Thanks. Once I plow through these, I’ll feel like I’m up to speed.”

       He gestured her out of the conference room and down the hallway toward the front of the building. When they reached the main area, he introduced her to Linda Scott, who served as receptionist/secretary and dispatcher.

       “Where do you send your forensic evidence for analysis?” she asked when they stepped out the front door and into the warm September night.

       “We use a lab in Kansas City. We don’t have any facilities here.”

       “I could get you access to the FBI lab.”

       “That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I’m satisfied with the lab we’re already using.”

       She shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

       “Do you sleep under a dream catcher?” he asked, the personal question leaping from his mouth before he’d actually considered asking.

       “My son does. The day he was born my granny Nightsong made him one to hang above his bed. I don’t sleep beneath one.” Her chocolate-brown eyes seemed to grow a tad bit darker. “I need to allow myself to have nightmares. It’s one of the ways I get in touch with people who do things like this.” She held up the files.

       “You must have terrible dreams,” he observed.

       “Sometimes I do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

       He watched as she got into her car. He wasn’t surprised that she had a family. A woman as bright as her, as beautiful as her, would have been snapped up by some man as quickly as possible.

       As her car disappeared in the distance, he felt a touch of relief that she was definitely off-limits. Not that he was interested, not that he cared.

       Cole had locked his heart away eight years ago when he’d lost his wife and every dream he’d ever entertained of being a husband and a father, and he had no intention of ever unlocking it.

       If he was lucky he wouldn’t see Agent Amberly Nightsong again. She’d phone in a report to him and that would be the end of her involvement in this case.

       He turned on his heels and headed back into the office. He had three murders to solve and didn’t have time to entertain thoughts of a hot-looking, married FBI agent who, for a moment, had stirred emotions long dead inside him…emotions he intended to remain dead for the rest of his life.

      Chapter Two

      Amberly swigged the last of the coffee in her cup and then got up from her table as she eyed the microwave clock. Almost seven-thirty. She needed to get out of here if she wanted to stop by John’s house and see Max before he left for school.

       She grabbed the files that had kept her up most of the night and her purse and then left the house. As she drove the three blocks, she tried to slough off the exhaustion of a night of too little sleep.

       These murders in Mystic Lake had already grabbed her by the throat, and she had a feeling they wouldn’t let her go until somebody was behind bars.

       She’d always been grateful that she usually had a level of detachment to the cases she worked that made her most effective and allowed her to leave the crime and the crime scene at work, keeping it from bleeding into her personal life.

       These crimes felt different already. As she’d gone through the files she’d been unable to maintain that emotional distance that had always made things easier.

       Maybe it was because the victims were not much younger than her own thirty years of age. Maybe it was the brutality alongside the beauty of the dream catcher, which was such a part of her heritage.

       She shoved all thoughts of the files and the murder victims out of her mind as she pulled into John’s driveway.

       For the next few minutes, her thoughts and attention would be solely focused on Max. He greeted her at the front door, dressed for school in a pair of jean shorts and a white-and-red-striped pullover shirt. She fought the impulse to reach out and tamp down the cowlick at the back of his head.

       “Mom,” he said in surprise and threw himself into her arms.

       Amberly hugged him tight, knowing that all too quickly the day would come when he would think it was uncool for his mommy to hug him. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning,” he said as they finally disengaged from each other.

       “I couldn’t start my day without seeing my favorite boy,” she replied. “Where’s your dad?”

       “In the kitchen, making French toast. You gonna eat with us?”

       “I’m not hungry, but it sure smells good.”

       John appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Bacon and French toast, and I’ve got plenty.”

       “Thanks, but no. However, I wouldn’t turn down a quick cup of coffee while you two eat.”

       He gestured with the pancake turner in his hand. “Come on, then. Max, wash your hands, it’s on the table.”

       As Max ran for the bathroom, Amberly followed John into the kitchen. He pointed her to a chair and then poured her a cup of coffee. “You look tired,” he said.

       “Late night. There’s a serial murderer working in Mystic Lake, and I’ve been assigned to consult.” She told him no more, having learned early in their marriage that John didn’t want to hear about her work as a profiler.

       John was an artist who’d made his name painting Western pictures with a glow of splendor. His world was one of beauty and history, and he’d never wanted her to bring the ugliness of her world inside their home.

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