Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy

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       That made sense, and she patted herself on the back for recognizing that he was more than a small-town sheriff, that he’d had his real training on the mean streets of St. Louis. “So, what brought you back here?” she asked, curious.

       His blue eyes deepened in hue, becoming the haunting color of midnight. “I was working a murder case, a triple homicide. The FBI had been called in for some assistance, and of course, once they got involved, they completely took over the case.”

       He hesitated a moment and drew in a long, deep breath. “For some reason, the killer focused in on me personally. He managed to kidnap my wife.”

       Although his words were delivered in a flat, emotionless tone, Amberly sensed a wealth of pain beneath the words, a pain too great for expression. She felt a tightening in her chest as she recognized his story probably didn’t have a happy ending.

       “The killer, Jeb Wilson, held her in an abandoned house for two days. We finally managed to find the place and had it surrounded. I had found a way in through a broken window in the basement, but the FBI refused to let me go in. They had decisions to make, red tape to cut or whatever, and so the rescue process was delayed by twenty minutes. When we finally got inside, my wife was dead, but her body was still warm. She’d been killed within minutes of us getting inside. As far as I’m concerned, the FBI was as responsible for her death as Jeb Wilson.”

      DESPITE THE FACT THAT EIGHT long years had passed, the agony of that moment, of finding his wife dead, had never eased, had never lessened. And there had always been a part of him that blamed the FBI agents for not having the capability of moving fast enough when his wife’s life had hung in the balance.

       “I’m so sorry,” she said, obviously aware that her words of consolation meant nothing. “You know, we don’t always get it right.”

       Surprisingly, these words, the knowledge that she knew the agency she worked for sometimes screwed up, somewhat satisfied him. “Well, I don’t intend to screw up these cases,” he said. “The families of these women have a right to know what happened to them and why.”

       “The why isn’t obvious yet,” she said, a tiny frown dancing across the center of her forehead. “I’d like to see the reports and interviews your deputies have gathered together since I left last night. We need to somehow find a common denominator among these women. That would be the first step in identifying a possible motive and suspect. And we need to do it fast. There were four weeks between his first kill and his second and only two weeks between the second and third. We have no idea how quickly his time line is escalating.”

       “Don’t remind me,” he said dryly. He got up from his desk, finding the small office stifling with her scent wafting in the air and her presence far too close to his desk. “Why don’t we move to the conference room? Would you like a cup of coffee?”

       “Absolutely. My belief is you can’t have enough coffee, and you can’t have enough red licorice.” He looked at her in surprise. “Changed the nicotine habit to a licorice habit years ago and have yet to kick the licorice addiction.”

       “Personally, I’m a black-licorice kind of guy,” he replied, as if he needed to remind her, assure himself of how different they were.

       They stepped out of his office, and as she headed down the hall to the conference room, he went into a break room that held a round table, a minifridge and a coffeepot.

       As he poured the coffee into two foam cups, an edge of irritation swept through him. He’d told her too much about himself. He didn’t want her to know his personal information, and he certainly didn’t want to know hers, but he’d spilled his guts to her, and he wasn’t sure why.

       He had three murders to solve, and he couldn’t allow his head to get muddied with the evocative scent of her, the intelligent depths of her beautiful eyes.

       She had a family, she was here to help him solve murders and not to awaken feelings that had been dead for eight years, feelings he never wanted to experience again.

       By the time he walked into the conference room, he felt as if he was once again under control. He placed a cup of coffee in front of her at the table. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I brought some sugar packets along.”

       “Black is fine,” she replied. “Did you know the victims personally?”

       He took the chair next to hers so they were both looking at the bulletin board. “Mystic Lake is a small town. I know most everyone here personally.”

       “Tell me about the victims, information that wasn’t in the official reports. What kind of women were they? What did they like to do in their spare time?”

       He knew what she was attempting to do—she was hoping to find a connection between the three women, a connection that might lead them to the killer, a connection he had yet to make.

       “First victim, Gretchen Johnson, worked as a bartender at a place at the edge of town called Bledsoe’s. She was tough, had been around the block a few times and lived in an apartment behind the bar. Mary Mathis was a hairdresser at the beauty shop, lived at home with her parents and was dating Craig Brown at the time of her death,” he began. “She liked to gossip, loved to shop and seemed well liked by everyone.”

       “Either of the other two victims go to that beauty shop?” she asked.

       “According to the owner of the salon, neither Gretchen nor Barbara got their hair done there.”

       “So, we can mark that off as a potential connection for the victims.”

       He nodded, wishing he’d chosen the other side of the table to sit, where he wouldn’t be so close to her. She wore no wedding ring, although he supposed there were plenty of married women around who didn’t wear a ring.

       He frowned and refocused. “I’ve tried to connect their lives, but these three women didn’t know each other well. They didn’t socialize together, they weren’t involved in the same activities and hobbies. Mary was a chatty hairdresser, Barbara was a shy teacher’s aide and Gretchen was a bartender at a rough-and-tumble place on the north edge of town. I can’t find where their lives intersected.”

       “If these are just random victims, then it’s going to make our job that much more difficult,” she replied as she stared at the board.

       Our job.

       She’d already taken half possession of the crime. He tried to be angry about it, but the truth of the matter was he wanted this killer caught before he killed again, and if it took Agent Amberly Nightsong’s help to accomplish that, then he’d accept it. The stakes were too high to get into a territorial dispute.

       “They might be random, but they have their approximate ages in common. However, Mary had light brown hair, Gretchen was dark haired and, as you know, Barbara was a blonde. So, at this point, we don’t know that he has a specific type of woman, other than that they were all around the same age.”

       She pulled her braid over the front of her shoulder and toyed with the end of it, a gesture he found ridiculously sensual, as he could imagine the spill of that thick, shiny hair across his bare chest.

       He jumped out of his chair, nearly upending his cup of coffee in the process. “I need to get out on the streets and check in with some of the townspeople. You’re welcome to stay in here as long as you СКАЧАТЬ