Christmas Crime in Colorado
Cassie Miles
Christmas Crime in Colorado
Cassie Miles
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u132569fc-9a05-5272-9f1b-ab5b6f331e73)
Title Page (#u8b9588be-8ad4-5096-8bb5-794a17f4eb9a)
About the Author (#u1b6ec9bc-8fd3-599e-917d-fe5da8895d7f)
Dedication (#ud7d52008-9e1f-5d62-9c93-7b03736ad2ad)
Chapter One (#ulink_eeeabe05-568b-5e1d-bba5-baf5ee74c511)
Chapter Two (#ulink_4e7c1b31-592e-5590-a2a4-f4d07997c1a0)
Chapter Three (#ulink_d01825e6-ba37-549e-8f9b-4141f0c4cd68)
Chapter Four (#ulink_c2b41301-d6be-5b93-adc2-feadfcfb603f)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Though born in Chicago and raised in Los Angeles, Cassie Miles has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. A lot of wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
With love to the handsome and brilliant
Finn Hayden Bergstrom-Glaser.
And, as always, to Rick.
Chapter One (#ulink_237e4874-2fec-58fb-aac1-798ca5cbaba5)
In early December, night came quickly to the snowcovered hills and valleys of the high Rockies. The sunset faded. Dusk blew across the land, bending the bare branches of white aspens and tall pines. Stars began to appear. Outside her A-frame house, Brooke Johnson stood beside her Jeep station wagon and listened to the sibilant breeze. Shush, shush, time to rest, to sleep, to heal. Shush.
Less than four months ago, she’d packed up and moved from Atlanta to Aspen, Colorado. Leaving behind friends and a corporate job in human resources, she sought solace in the big-shouldered Rockies where no one knew her history. Her ex-husband Thomas. His infidelities. Her restraining orders. The miscarriage. The humiliation of a marriage gone terribly wrong.
In Aspen, Brooke hoped to make a fresh start at age thirty-two. Though she’d only visited Colorado twice before, she thought of the mountains as a natural paradise—a Shangrila where the air was clean and dreams came true. She’d found a job at a boutique and spent a sizable chunk of her savings on the security deposit for this furnished A-frame nestled on the sunny side of a canyon. From where she stood, she could only see the rooftops of two other houses. Both were vacant during the week, used only on weekends and holidays when the families came up to ski. She liked the solitude, the silence behind the wind. But the magnificence of the Aspen environs came at a steep price; the astronomical rent meant that Brooke had to have a roommate.
And that was her current problem: her roommate, Sally Klinger.
When they first met, Sally joked about how lucky they were to have the same build, same coloring and same long, dark auburn hair and blue eyes.
“Why lucky?” Brooke had asked.
“Because all the clothes that look good on you will suit me just fine!”
Sally took their physical similarity as an open invitation to help herself to Brooke’s wardrobe. Brooke quickly realized that this was a minor annoyance compared to Sally’s constant cursing, her blaring music and her clutter—magazines, dirty dishes, shoes and clothes—strewn with abandon around the house. Not to mention her herd of boyfriends, some of whom felt free to wander through the house in nothing more than boxer shorts.
Brooke had spoken to her dozens of times to no effect. This roommate thing just wasn’t working. Sally had to go.
Standing on the long, level driveway that branched off from the steep road leading up the side of the canyon, Brooke glared toward the A-frame. Every light was lit, including the lamp in her own bedroom—a probable indication that her roommate had been “borrowing” more clothes. Sally’s SUV was parked facing the road, ready to zoom the roughly twelve miles into town to troll for ski bums and beer.
Tonight, Brooke would tell her roommate that she’d had enough. She hadn’t escaped from her ex-husband only to fall into another abusive living arrangement. Even though Sally was only a roommate, Brooke intended to break up with her. It had to be done.
She turned the handle on the back door which was, of course, unlocked in spite of Sally’s promise to keep the place secure. As soon as Brooke stepped inside, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. It smelled even worse than usual in here. The kitchen counter was littered with beer bottles and two plates with half-eaten sandwiches. Two plates. Very likely, Sally was upstairs in her bedroom with yet another boyfriend.
Dropping her backpack amid the junk on the kitchen table, Brooke listened. Instead of the usual screeches of passion that indicated Sally was entertaining, she heard silence. No music. No TV. Not even the sound of Sally yakking.
“Sally? Are you home?”
She had to be here. Her car was parked outside.
“Sally?”
Brooke entered the living room where the sloped ceiling peaked at the top of the A. She stopped short. Denim-clad legs and bare feet dangled above her head. Sally hung by her neck from a rope.
Brooke stumbled backward, banging into the sofa. Her gut clenched, and she doubled over. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
It was only an illusion—her mind had to be playing tricks on her. Her anger at Sally had somehow caused this waking nightmare.
She didn’t want Sally dead, only gone from her house. Brooke forced herself to breathe slowly, the way her therapist had shown her as a way to control her fears. Slowly, inhale and exhale. She grounded herself. Then, she looked up.
Brooke’s gaze slid down the rope to Sally, who wore a white shirt, jeans and Brooke’s new down vest. On her pale wrist was the delicate Cartier watch Brooke’s father had given her when she graduated from college. She couldn’t see Sally’s face from where she was—her long, auburn hair spilled forward.
A scream clawed up the back of Brooke’s throat, but she held back. Control. I need to control my mind, control my fear. But how could she? Inside her head, rational thought tumbled into an incoherent whirl. She couldn’t make sense of this horror, feeling like she’d stepped onto a movie set where the director would yell “Cut,” and Sally would be fine. Yet she still hung there. Dead weight.
Maybe not dead. Not yet. Though unconscious, Sally might still be alive. The thought spurred Brooke into action. She leapt forward, wrapping her arms around Sally’s legs, trying to boost her up. Her bare feet were icecold. Her body twisted and swung. With a horrible thud, her back hit the wall below the railing.
This wasn’t working; Brooke needed help. In the kitchen, she grabbed her cell phone from her backpack and called 911. While waiting for an answer, she raced back to the front room and climbed the open staircase to the balcony.
When the 911 operator answered, Brooke blurted out, “An ambulance. My roommate. She tried to hang herself.”
“Ma’am, I need your location.”
She rattled off the address as she stared at the knot in the thick, heavy braided rope. She tugged at the loose end that coiled by her feet, then clawed at the tangled snarl looped around the railing. With Sally’s weight pulling the rope taut, there was no way she could untie the knot.
“Stay on the line,” the operator said. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“The rope,” Brooke said. “I have to cut the rope.”
“An ambulance is on the way. Is your roommate conscious? Is she—”
“No.” She went down the staircase, her thick-soled hiking boots jolting her legs with each step. “I know CPR. If I can get her down, I can help her.”
In the kitchen, she pulled a butcher knife from the wood block near the sink. It would take forever to saw through that thick rope with a blade this flimsy. She needed something heavier.
Outside the kitchen door under the eaves was a waisthigh box that held a cord of wood for the fireplace and an ax. She dropped her cell phone on the table and hurried out the back door. Her hands trembled as she hefted the ax onto her shoulder.
Panic magnified her senses. The light above the back door shone with an intense silvery luster—a contrast to the pitch-black shadows of night. Over the rush of her own breathing, she heard a rustling in the branches followed by the crunch of footsteps on the snow. Turning toward the sound, she peered into a thick chokecherry bush that rose higher than the top of her head. “Is someone there?” she asked, her voice unsteady with fear.
The lights from the house reflected in a pair of eyes. No more than fifteen feet away, they stared at her through a bare thicket, then blinked and were gone.
Sheer terror washed over her. Had she actually seen something? Those eyes didn’t even look human.
More loudly, she demanded, “Who’s there?”
The wind blew, and the shadows shifted. She heard no other sound, saw nothing. She had no time to search. Her focus came back to a single purpose: Get Sally down.
Carrying the ax, she ran back into the house, closed the door and locked it behind her. Unable to forget those weirdly shining eyes, she moved cautiously through the galley-style kitchen. Her rational mind was clamoring to be heard over the terror.
Hyperaware of every sound and every shadow, Brooke edged into the front room. The plain, simple furniture didn’t offer many hiding places. She scanned the patterned blue sofas and the rocking chairs by the fireplace. She was dimly aware of a terrible smell, a smell that said there was no rush to get Sally down because she was already gone.
And then she saw him. Silhouetted against the sliding glass doors, he darted across the deck at the front of the house. Then he was gone.
Her pulse hammered. Her blood rushed, and she felt dizzy.
Outside the sliding glass doors, the outline of a man took shape again. Her eyes narrowed in a squint, but she couldn’t see him clearly. The lines of his shoulders shifted like a mirage.
Illusion or reality? Either she was being threatened by an intruder—a killer?—or she’d lost her mind.
The wind blew, and the glass trembled. The man reached for the door handle. She prayed the doors were locked. No such luck. The glass inched open.
“Stay back!” She stepped forward and away from Sally’s dangling legs. Brooke swung the ax in a wide arc. “Don’t come in here!”
She heard a hissing noise. The sound of breathing? He was gasping like the flatlanders who weren’t accustomed to the altitude. He was someone who had come from far away.
Her ex-husband.
That can’t be! I’ve left that part of my life behind. Thomas wouldn’t come here. He wouldn’t dare.
“Show yourself!” she yelled at the man. There was no way she could fight a shadow or a nightmare illusion. If she saw him, she could fight back. Damn it, she had an ax. She wasn’t helpless.
Unless he has a gun.
She crept forward, holding the ax at the ready. The handle slipped in her sweaty palms. She tightened her grip.
A face pressed up against the window. The features were unclear. All she could really see were the eyes—hate-filled eyes glaring into her soul.
No time to think. No point in screaming. She dropped the ax, pivoted and ran. She’d heard his gasps. He was already out of breath. She might be able to outdistance him.
Racing through the kitchen, she glanced at her cell phone on the table. Where the hell was the ambulance? The police? She flipped the lock on the door, grabbed the butcher knife off the counter and dove into the night.
Her hiking boots slowed her down, but the heavy soles had good traction in the packed snow. She ran down the driveway, passing her Jeep. Damn it! Why didn’t I grab my car keys instead of a butcher knife? She wasn’t thinking clearly. Her perceptions were all wrong. That one mistake—knife instead of car keys—could get her killed.
She saw headlights on the road leading up the steep cliff. The car turned at her driveway. It had to be the police. But why weren’t they using the siren?
A bronze SUV pulled in and parked. A tall man in a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans stepped out of the driver’s side.
She whirled and peered back at the well-lit house. The intruder was nowhere in sight. Had she even seen him? She could have imagined him, creating a vision that matched her fears. It wouldn’t be the first time. She hated the fact that she couldn’t always trust her own eyes.
After she left Thomas, she’d had nightmares so intense that she went to a therapist and got a prescription, which seemed to make things worse. More than once, she woke in a cold sweat, screaming. Those vivid, Technicolor illusions felt more tangible than her everyday life. She’d seen danger on every street corner, heard threats in every utterance. Thinking of that terror, she could taste the familiar coppery bite of fear on her tongue. Her lungs ached with the pressure of controlling her panic.
Spinning around, she faced the tall man who stood beside his car. He appeared real. His lips moved, and he spoke.
“What’s the problem?”
If he had to ask, he hadn’t come in response to her 911 call. When he took a step toward her, she held up the knife. “Stay where you are. What’s your name?”
“Michael Shaw.” The glow from his headlights showed a calm, self-assured expression. His face was familiar. “We’ve met. I was hoping you’d remember me,” he said with a hint of a Southern drawl. “I was in your shop this afternoon. You sold me a pair of gloves.”
Indeed, she recalled. And the memory—a reality—grounded her.
Michael Shaw had been the high point of her day. He was tall and lean with eyes the color of jade and a smile that could melt a glacier. She’d been flattered when he leaned across the counter in the boutique and asked her opinion as if he really cared what she thought. They must have talked for fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, his accent reminded her of Atlanta—the one place in the world she wanted to forget.
When he’d asked her out for coffee, she’d treasured the moment but still said no. After Thomas, she’d had enough of smooth-talking Southern gentlemen to last the rest of her lifetime.
“Why are you here?” she demanded. “Did you follow me?”
“Calm down, Brooke. I’m a cop. Remember? I told you this afternoon. I’m a police detective from Birmingham, Alabama.”
She nodded, recalling their conversation. He was a cop. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t a threat. “What do you want from me?”
“We need to talk. I have something important to tell you, and it can’t wait any longer,” he said, his eyes falling on the knife she held.
“That’s why you asked me out.”
“And you turned me down.” He clapped one gloved hand upon his chest. “Nearly broke my heart.”
He took a step toward her, and she pointed the knife directly at his chest. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Okay, Brooke.” He stepped back and paused, studying her. “You want to tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.”
Suspiciously, she studied his handsome features. He seemed not to know what was going on, yet he happened to arrive at her house at this particular moment by pure chance. Could she trust him? After being stalked by her ex, she’d learned not to trust in coincidence. On the other hand, she needed help.
“It’s Sally,” she said. “My roommate.”
“Tell me about Sally.” His voice was steady and reassuring, just the right tone for a cop. Not that she was entirely sure she trusted cops, either. “You don’t have to be afraid. Whatever it is, I’m on your side.”
She stared into the darkness at the end of the driveway. Her ears strained to hear the sound of an approaching siren. “The police are on the way. The real police.”
“Oh, I’m a real officer. If you want, I’ll show you my badge.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “Now, take a breath. A long, slow breath. You need to calm down, Brooke.”
His tone irritated her, somehow implying that her terror was silly. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just want you to tell me what’s got you so scared.”
My whole life. But she didn’t have time to explain. She had to cut Sally down, and she needed Michael to help her. “Do you have a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
Aware that she might be making another mistake in judgment, she led Michael to the kitchen door of the A-frame. Was there any hope that Sally could be saved? Of course there was, she told herself.
He held his gun in both hands and pushed open the door with his foot. “Is someone in there with your roommate?”
“I thought I saw him. A face at the window.”
“Stay close to me.”
He entered with the kind of confidence that comes from training, identifying himself loudly and repeatedly as a policeman. His deep voice echoed against the slanted walls of the house. The barrel of his gun was pointed and ready.
When he saw Sally, he paused. “Your roommate?”
“Yes.”
“She looks a lot like you.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_a3b7d275-b671-5e4e-9914-a409b2144c61)
Reaching up, Michael grasped the wrist of the woman who hung from the heavy rope, trying to find a pulse. Nothing. Not even a flutter. Her skin felt as cold as a gutted trout. She smelled like feces. In his ten years on the Birmingham PD, Michael had only seen one other hanging. But he didn’t need a coroner to tell him this woman was deceased.
He glanced toward Brooke. Though she stood very still with the butcher knife clutched in her fist, her blue eyes were alive, darting in restless panic.
“We need to cut her down,” she said in a shaky voice. “She might just be unconscious. I know CPR.”
He suspected that she already knew her roommate was dead, but he didn’t feel it was the moment to state that painful truth out loud. “You said there was someone else in the house.”
“I think so.” She pointed toward the sliding glass doors. “Over there. I think he was dressed in black.”
“Gloves?”
“I don’t know.”
“How tall?”
“Don’t know. Average.”
“Did you recognize him?” She refused to look directly at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“It was all too fast.” Her features twisted in anguish. “I’m not sure he was really there.”
It took guts to admit that she was freaked out, but he hoped her possible delusion wasn’t symptomatic. “Has that happened to you before? Seeing things that aren’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you taking any medications?”
Her chin lifted. “We don’t have time to talk about any of that. We need to help Sally.”
Whether she was delusional or not, she was in serious denial about Sally’s condition. He wished that he knew more about Brooke Johnson, that he’d taken more time to research her personal history before he’d tracked her down. “First, we need to make sure there’s no one else in the house. I want you to come with me. We’ll start upstairs.”
Holding his gun at the ready, he climbed the staircase with Brooke right behind him. When he pushed open the door to the first bedroom, he saw chaos. Unmade bed. Curtains torn askew. Dirty dishes piled on the bedside table. Clothes draped everywhere. “Could be there was a struggle in here.”
“Actually,” Brooke said, “this is the way it always looks.”
Michael nodded, making a mental note to search Sally’s cluttered desktop later for a suicide note. “Okay, let’s check the other rooms.”
At the opposite end of the open balcony was Brooke’s neat room—a major contrast to the chaos left behind by her roommate. The open door of her closet revealed a neat row of plastic hangers with all the shirts facing the same direction. From the clean surface of her dresser and her desk with a closed laptop to the autumnal quilt on her double bed, this space reflected someone who valued order. When she reached down to straighten the brown rug on the hardwood floor beside the bed, he stopped her.
“Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”
Her spine stiffened as if offended by his statement. “This is my home. It’s supposed to be a place where I feel safe.”
With her thick reddish-brown hair and delicate features, she was a whole lot more attractive than her driver’s license photo. Other than that obvious observation, he didn’t know what to make of Ms. Brooke Johnson. Though she was upset, she hadn’t lost control, which showed an admirable strength of character. On the other hand, she might have seen a man who wasn’t there.
She held herself with an aloof poise. Cool, but not cold—not an ice princess. Earlier today, when he talked to her at that high-priced accessory boutique, she’d been friendly, even laughed at his lame jokes. He’d liked her enough that he’d held off telling her why he sought her out. He had wanted to wait, to build trust. Now, he feared that his hesitation might have proved fatal for her roommate. If he had to guess, he would say that Sally’s death was not a suicide.
The wail of an approaching ambulance siren cut through the night. He looked toward the window. “The paramedics will be here real soon.”
She stepped into the hallway and leaned her back against the wall, her gaze fastened on the heavy rope tied around the banister. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“There’s nothing you could have done to save her.”
“I was so angry at her. She was driving me crazy with her clutter and her idiot boyfriends. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” Her words gushed out. Like a confession. “When I came home tonight, I was going to confront her. She had to shape up or get out. I should have been more understanding. I should have tried harder.”
“This isn’t your fault, Brooke.”
What he was about to tell her would make her feel a lot worse than she did right now, but there was no way to avoid the truth. The police would be here in minutes, and Michael was obligated to give them an explanation for why he’d shown up on Brooke’s doorstep.
He holstered his gun and stepped in front of her. “I want you to listen to me. Listen carefully.”
“Why is this happening? Why?”
“Brooke, look at me.”
When she lifted her face, he saw confusion and anger. He wished there was time to be gentle, but he’d missed that opportunity. “Three years ago in Atlanta,” he said, “you were on a jury.”
“What?” She shook her head as if his words were incomprehensible.
“You have to remember.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He stepped back, aware that she still had the knife. “I don’t know who you are. Don’t care what you have to say.”
“You’ve got to hear this.”
“Leave me alone.”
When she started toward the stairs, he easily grabbed her wrist and gave it a flick. The butcher knife clattered to the hardwood floor. He held both her arms, forcing her to stand still. “Listen to me.”
Her teeth bared in a snarl. “Let go of me.”
“Do you remember the trial?”
“Armed robbery,” she snapped. “The guy was guilty.”
“His name was Robert E. Lee Warren, known as Robby Lee. Six weeks ago, he was killed in a prison fight.”
“Why are you telling me this?” The ambulance siren was right outside the door. The emergency lights flashed against the walls of the living room.
“You were juror number four,” he said. “The first three people on that jury list are dead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone is killing off the jurors who convicted Robby Lee. You’re the next name on that list.”
As his words sank into her consciousness, the fight seemed to drain from her body. Her blue eyes widened. “You’re talking about a serial killer.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s coming after me?”
“I’m sorry, Brooke.” He loosened his grip on her arms, putting his right hand on her shoulder.
She wrenched free. “Why do you care? This is my life. I’ll take care of myself.”
As she turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs, he gave her points for spirit and guts. But she was way out of her league.
It was up to him to make sure she stayed alive.
BROOKE HUDDLED in the backseat of Deputy George McGraw’s spotless SUV. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around a mug of herbal tea that had gone cold as she stared at her house. So much for a safe haven. As Michael had so calmly pointed out, her A-frame was a crime scene.
She rubbed at her bare wrist, wishing that she’d worn her watch when she left the house this morning. The gold Cartier with the cream-colored face had been taken away with Sally’s body in an ominously silent ambulance. Brooke had no idea how much time had passed since the police arrived. It seemed like only minutes, but it must have been longer—much longer. So much had happened. Deputy McGraw had taken her statement. Official vehicles had arrived and departed. Right now, there were several officers tromping up and down the steep hills and forest surrounding her house, waving flashlights and snapping photographs.
Her jaw clenched as she watched. She wanted them all to leave. Her preferred method for coping with stress was to hide away by herself and find something to keep her hands busy. Her fingers itched to do something useful. Busywork. Instead of sitting here, mired in worry, she wanted to start cleaning. She’d scrub every surface in the house, wash her roommate’s dirty dishes, pack up her belongings and send them to…where? She drew a blank, unable to recall if Sally had ever mentioned where she came from, or her parents’ address, or even if she had brothers and sisters.
Sadness welled up inside her. Her roommate had lived in the moment with the volume cranked up high. For Sally, every word was a song. Every step, a dance. She partied all night and still had enough energy to go hiking at dawn. But that was all Brooke really knew about her.
As Brooke stared toward the house, her vision blurred with rising tears. She should have paid more attention to Sally, should have appreciated her exuberant appetite for life instead of complaining about the noise.
Outside the back door that led to her kitchen, she saw Deputy McGraw conferring with Michael, who had been readily accepted by the local officers as soon as he showed his badge. He glanced toward her with his cool jade eyes, his thumb hitched in the pocket of his jeans next to the holster on his belt.
She was still angry about their confrontation outside her bedroom. He’d knocked the knife from her hands, grabbed her arms without permission; she’d be well within her rights to charge him with assault.
But she hadn’t been harmed. And he’d touched her with strength, not cruelty. Instinctively, she knew he didn’t want to hurt her. He was there to help. When he’d forced her to listen to him, she saw the worry in his expression—a deep and abiding concern for her safety. For an instant, she’d wanted to accept his protection and take shelter in his arms.
Then sanity had returned. She didn’t know anything about this guy and didn’t want to believe his story about someone killing jurors from that trial three years ago. It didn’t make sense. If there really was such a serial killer, the FBI would investigate, wouldn’t they?
She’d be nuts to trust this good-looking cop from Alabama. The fact that Michael had come all the way across the country to warn her was decidedly strange. Why hadn’t he just picked up the phone and called? Now that he’d delivered the information, what did he intend to do?
The car door opened, and Deputy McGraw climbed inside. A huge, barrel-chested man with a walrus mustache, he took up a lot of space as he settled on the backseat beside her and closed the door.
“How are you holding up, Brooke?”
“I have some questions.” She forced herself to stay calm, kept all the turmoil hidden inside.
“Maybe I can give you some answers,” McGraw rumbled in a deep, gravelly voice. “Go ahead and ask.”
“When I first saw Sally, I thought she might be…” She pushed the thought away before a clear memory could take shape. “Was there anything I could have done?”
“According to the coroner, her neck snapped and she died immediately. You couldn’t have saved her.”
Not unless I’d been here. Not unless I’d been more understanding, more protective. “Was it suicide?”
“Did she seem depressed? Nervous?”
She shook her head. “Did you know Sally?”
“Gave her a speeding ticket once. She was a real live wire. Maybe a little bit of a party girl.” Though he growled, like rocks in a tumbler, there was no animosity in his tone. “Did Sally Klinger have a lot of boyfriends?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Anybody special?”
She concentrated, remembering a parade of tanned, outdoorsy young men. “There was one. Streaky blond hair. A tattoo of a lightning bolt on his wrist. Tyler?”
“Tyler Hennessey? The X Games snowboarder?”
“That sounds right. Sally was teaching snowboarding at the ski school.” She’d suggested that Brooke try snowboarding in addition to her beginner skiing lessons. Joking, Sally had promised to show her the “ups and downs” of snowboarding. “Why would she kill herself? She seemed to love her life here.”
“You knew her better than I did.”
“We didn’t really get along, to be honest,” Brooke said.
There was no point in sugarcoating their relationship. Just this afternoon, she’d been complaining about her roommate to Hannah Lewis, the owner of the boutique where she worked. Guiltily, Brooke remembered saying that she could just kill Sally.
The deputy cleared his throat. “Did your roommate ever mention her husband?”
Brooke gasped. “Sally was married?”
“I’m guessing they’re separated. His residence is Denver, but we haven’t been able to reach him.”
The fact that Sally had a husband made it seem possible that she’d been murdered as part of a love triangle. A jealous husband might want revenge on his wayward wife. “You never answered my question about suicide.”
“I won’t have a definite answer until after we’ve done a bit more investigating.” The big man settled back in his seat and exhaled, frowning. Beneath his mustache, he frowned. “Looks like suicide. She could’ve slung the rope around her neck and jumped.”
Not something Brooke wanted to think about. She suppressed a shudder.
“But I’m not so sure,” McGraw said. “For one thing, she didn’t leave a note. For another, there’s your statement.You said you might have seen a man outside the sliding glass doors.”
“He didn’t speak.” On that point, she was clear. “Did you find footprints on the deck?”
“Sorry, Brooke. This snow is half mush and half ice. If we’d had a nice coat of new snow, we would have had a better shot at corroborating your story. Tell me about the guy again.”
“He seemed to be wearing black. I thought he started to open the sliding glass doors.” She hated to think of herself so caught up in a delusion that she’d threatened the air with an axe. “I wish I could give you a better description. I was scared.”
“You must have been relieved when Detective Shaw turned up. He seems like a decent guy.”
“Has he told you about the serial killer?”
The deputy nodded. “Heck of a thing.”
It seemed that Deputy McGraw believed Michael’s story. Of course, he would. Lawmen always stuck together as a matter of professional courtesy. When she’d taken out a restraining order against her ex-husband—a district attorney—the police didn’t believe her. They stood behind Thomas in a solid blue wall and made her feel like a nutcase.
Irritated, she said, “I thought the FBI handled serial killer investigations.”
“That’s right. I put in a call to the Denver office.”
“Why?”
“We need to consider all the possibilities. Let’s just suppose that Michael’s theory is right on target. A killer coming after you might have mistakenly attacked Sally. You two gals look enough alike to be sisters.”
Brooke closed her eyes. Had Sally died in her place? Was Sally’s death her fault? Her shoulders slumped, weighed down beneath a mantle of guilt.
“Are you okay?” McGraw asked.
No. I’ll never be okay again. She couldn’t allow herself to believe that she was responsible for Sally’s death. She had to stay in control. In a small voice, she said, “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been through a lot tonight. Suicide is bad enough. But murder?” He shook his head. “Heck of a thing.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“We’re treating this investigation like a homicide. That’s why there’s a swarm of officers up here, taking fingerprints and photos, marking off anything that might be evidence.”
She looked through the windshield at the officers, all busy with different tasks. She imagined them upstairs in her bedroom, pawing through her drawers, looking over her personal things. “When can I get back into my house?”
“Not tonight,” he said. “Is there somebody you can stay with? You work for Hannah Lewis, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you can stay with Hannah. I’m sure she’s got an extra room.”
“I’ll be fine.” Brooke suddenly felt desperate to get away from all the flashing lights and crackling radios. “Is it all right if I leave now?”
“I’ll have one of my men bring your backpack. Is there anything else you want from the house?”
Everything. An outfit to wear tomorrow. A nightgown. My lotion. But she couldn’t stand the idea of strangers retrieving her belongings for her. “I’m okay.”
“I’ll need to get in touch with you tomorrow, Brooke.”
“It’s a work day.” During the many traumatic twists and turns that marked the long months of her separation from Thomas and her devastating divorce, she’d always found solace in returning to her job, in keeping busy. “I’ll be at the boutique.”
A few minutes later, she was behind the steering wheel of her car with her backpack on the passenger seat beside her. It took some maneuvering for all the police and emergency vehicles to clear a path, but she managed to get past them. She made the tight turn onto the snow-packed road that led down the side of the cliff.
She was glad to leave it all behind her, but she couldn’t relax. Her lungs were still clenched. Tension gripped the muscles in her back and neck.
The fear that she’d fought so hard to control returned to haunt her. She hated feeling like a coward—it made her feel weak and out of control.
Usually, the cool silence of the night would have soothed her. In the few months that she’d been in Colorado, she’d reveled in peaceful solitude.
But that was before danger had found her. The tension inside her built. Her gloved fingers tightened on the steering wheel. She couldn’t get the image of Sally out of her mind. “It’s wrong. So wrong,” she muttered.
She pulled up at the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. She needed to vent—to express her fear and, in so doing, loosen its hold.
Keeping her hands on the steering wheel, she yelled in protest. It was a battle cry—loud and guttural, wrenched from deep inside her. Then she yelled again. Screaming in the car was something that psychos did, but she had to let it out, had to find release in her fight against the invisible demon of fear. “I am a good person. I deserve a normal, quiet life. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”
The night answered her with overwhelming silence. For a moment, her fear seemed almost insignificant as she looked through the windshield at the massive mountains and the moonlight glistening on the snow. The pine trees watched like sentinels.
Her breath began to come more easily.
Turning left, she drove cautiously on the curving road that bordered Squirrel Creek as she considered the practical problem of where to stay tonight. During ski season, even the cheapest accommodations in Aspen were too expensive for her budget, and just about every place was fully booked anyway. She glanced down to check her gas gauge. She had enough to drive to Glenwood Springs, where it was likely she’d find an affordable place to stay.
She actually didn’t want to be in Aspen. The last thing she needed was to run into someone she knew—or worse, someone who knew Sally. Though Aspen was a worldclass resort, there was a small-town feeling among the local merchants, hotel staff and those who worked in the ski industry. Everybody was into everybody else’s business.
She turned left onto the shortcut to Glenwood, a twolane road with snow piled up on both sides. The clock on her dashboard showed that it was after ten o’clock. Most people were either home in bed or propped up on a bar stool in their favorite tavern.
Headlights in her rearview mirror caught her attention. They seemed to be approaching too fast. The bright high beams came closer. Like two shining eyes, glaring.
The muscles in her leg tightened as she pressed down on the accelerator. In seconds, the speedometer read fiftyfive, which wasn’t an unreasonable speed for this straight road across an open meadow—unless she hit an icy patch.
The vehicle behind her matched her pace, staying a few lengths behind. Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the road ahead. There were no houses close to the road. No ready escape.
Her usually reliable Jeep station wagon jostled and jolted. She felt a clunk. A fierce vibration rattled the frame.
A flat tire.
The steering wheel jerked in her hands. She had to slow down. There was no other choice.
She wanted to believe that the driver of that truck meant her no harm, that the hate-filled face she’d seen at the house was only an illusion, that Michael’s story about a serial killer was crazy.
But if she was wrong…she was a dead woman.
Chapter Three (#ulink_5951fbcb-f059-545f-ba52-0fc9c5fb18dd)
Breathing hard, Brooke pulled over at a wide spot in the road, parking next to a pile of snow left behind by the plow. Dread crashed over her. Panic came roaring back with the force of an avalanche.
She watched as the truck that had been behind her swept past. Just that quickly, the other vehicle was gone.
The truck hadn’t been following her. She was safe. Throwing off her seat belt, she took a deep breath and waited for the panic to subside. Now all she had to do was deal with a flat, find a place to stay and hang on to her sanity.
The shortcut to Glenwood Springs wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere—but close enough. The nearest house lights appeared to be at least a mile away. She could hike there, but she hesitated to leave the safety of her car. Walking through the night, she’d be vulnerable.
Another set of headlights shone through the windshield. Was he coming back? She squinted through the night. The lights were too low to be a truck. It was a different vehicle, maybe someone who could help her. People who lived in the mountains tended to be understanding about car problems. She might be able to flag them down.
The headlights came closer. Her fingers closed around the door handle. If she jumped out and waved, the other car would surely stop. Ask for help. Get yourself out of this mess.
She withdrew her hand, unwilling to play the role of a helpless Southern belle. In her experience, it wasn’t smart to depend on the kindness of strangers.
The car zoomed past without slowing.
Being alone was good. She could take care of herself. She could change the tire…or at least call someone who could. Handling the situation by herself would help her reclaim control of her life. A false claim, for sure. She had no control. Zero.
She pounded her fist on the steering wheel. Her house was a crime scene. Her roommate was dead. And she was the target of a serial killer. No reason to fall apart, right? Be rational. Focus on the present.
Her first consideration was the flat tire. She’d bought these tires only a few weeks ago because they were guaranteed to do well in snow, and she’d been driving on them long enough that she didn’t think they were defective. How had she gotten a flat? Had someone sabotaged her tire?
Another car approached. Instead of passing, it slowed and parked behind her. Coming to help? Or coming to hurt her?
Frantically, she cranked the ignition. Even if it meant driving on the rim, she had to escape.
Someone tapped on the glass. She looked up and saw Michael outside her window. “Let’s go, Brooke.”
She didn’t want his help. She rolled down her window. “I have a flat.”
His hand rested on the butt of his gun as he stared down the road. Then he leaned down to her level. “Somebody disabled your vehicle. They wanted you stranded. Get out of the car, and come with me.”
Only seconds ago, she’d considered the same conclusion. Her flat tire wasn’t a coincidence. Neither was the fact that Michael was here. “Did you follow me?”
“Damn right.”
She hated to have him hovering around like some sort of aggravating guardian angel, but it would be silly not to take advantage of his presence. She opened the car door and grabbed her backpack. “I’d appreciate a ride into town. I can get one of the guys from the gas station to come fix the flat.”
“Sure.” He grasped her arm and guided her toward his sedan.
“I can walk on my own, Michael.”
“Then you’d best walk fast,” he said. “No point in standing here like a target.”
“No point at all,” she agreed.
She ran to the passenger side of his SUV and climbed inside. Michael hit the gas, and they zoomed away. He kept checking his mirrors, alert to any approaching threat.
In spite of the snow and icy spots, they shot down the road, fast but controlled. She liked the way he drove, his hands strong and confident on the wheel. With satisfaction, she noticed that he was wearing the black leather gloves he’d bought on her recommendation. Like everything in the boutique, the gloves were very expensive, and she’d been a bit surprised that a cop from Birmingham could afford the exorbitant price.
“My best guess,” he said, “is that the killer punched a hole in your tire, causing a slow leak.”
“When could he have done that?”
“Right after you arrived at your house. Or maybe he waited until later and shot a bullet into the tire. There was a lot of confusion.”
“I didn’t hear gunfire.”
“Silencer,” he said. “He could have done it when you pulled up at the stop sign. You sat there for a good, long while. I could see your tail lights when I was trying to get out of the driveway.”
Though he was talking about a serial killer with a gun, she felt the band of tension squeezing her lungs begin to loosen. Breathing came more easily. In the warm interior of his car, she relaxed. The questions she should have been asking about why he’d come after her and what he wanted from her seemed unimportant. For the moment, she felt safe.
He stopped at an intersection. No headlights were visible in any direction. “I think we’re good,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror.
She gazed at him, taking in his high forehead, deep-set eyes and firm jaw. He had that deceptively lazy look that she thought of as Southern and sultry.
She leaned back against the seat, aware of the bonedeep weariness that came in the aftermath of danger. What she needed right now was to sleep, to curl up in a ball and go completely unconscious. But there was more to do tonight, and she needed to get organized. “If you take a right here and drive for a couple of miles to Lander’s Crossing, then another right, we’ll be headed back toward Aspen.”
“Got it.” He drove for a moment in silence, then he said, “We need to talk about a few things, Brooke.”
She held up her hand, forestalling any more warnings. “Not about your serial killer. I’ve had enough for today.”
“You need to know what to expect. I’m not just whistling Dixie. This killer is real.”
“Then why didn’t the FBI contact me?”
“Good question. And I have a real good explanation,” he drawled. “It all started about a month ago, at the end of October. I got word from Atlanta that Grant Rawlins had been killed. It was an execution-style murder with one bullet through the forehead and another in his heart.”
Grant Rawlins. His name brought back memories of the trial. Locked up in a bland room in the Atlanta courthouse, their deliberations lasted a whole day. She remembered being tired, watching the afternoon sun pouring through the windows and fading to dusk, knowing that they would have to return the next day to finalize their verdict.
At that time, three years ago, her marriage had already sprung a leak. Thomas had been with another woman, but he’d broken off the affair. She’d forgiven him, confident that they could get their marriage back on course. His career was beginning to take off, and she’d been proud to be his wife.
Back then she’d been a solidly married woman who would never dream of being unfaithful. Still, she couldn’t help noticing Grant Rawlins—a dark, handsome man with a subtle charisma. He moved athletically in spite of his prosthetic leg. “We elected Grant to be foreman of the jury.”
“He was a leader,” Michael said proudly. “We served together in the Marines.”
“He told me he lost his leg in the service,” she said.
“And saved my life.” His jaw tensed. “Grant was a true hero. And I want justice for his murder.”
She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to continue the discussion but intrigued by Michael’s story. “Surely there was an investigation.”
“The Atlanta PD did a decent job. They were the ones who made the link to the jury that convicted Robby Lee Warren. When he got killed in prison, there were plenty of people screaming for revenge. Robby Lee’s three brothers. His father. And the thugs he ran with.”
“But nobody was arrested for Grant’s murder?”
“Not enough evidence. Too many alibis.” He took the turn that lead toward Aspen. “The case went cold, but I couldn’t put the murder behind me. I kept seeing Grant, lying in his coffin with his Purple Heart ribbon pinned to his lapel. So I took a six-month leave of absence from my job to focus all my efforts on finding his killer.”
Michael’s loyalty was fierce—she understood his need to solve this crime. “You said there were other deaths.”
“Juror number two died in what looked like a car accident. I tried to make the case that Grant’s murderer had set up the accident, but the two murders were so different that they didn’t fit FBI profiles.”
“And the third juror?”
“Disappeared. The body hasn’t been found.” He gave her a long look. “That’s why I’m here with you. I owe it to Grant to keep you safe.”
Her typical I-can-take-care-of-myself response stuck in her craw. She couldn’t easily dismiss his story, turn her back and walk away. His logic made sense. And his emotional response to his friend’s death rang true.
She believed him.
Accepting Michael’s story affected her in ways that couldn’t be ignored. Ever since she moved to Aspen, she’d been recuperating from her horror-story divorce. The mountains had healed her. She thought she was recovered, but his words awakened her fears. It felt like she’d gone to the doctor with a headache and found out that she had a fatal illness. Michael had pronounced her death sentence.
She had a terrible thought that she didn’t want to put into words. But she had to. “Did he kill my roommate thinking that she was me?”
“I don’t know your roommate, but it sounds like she had other people who might want her dead. And I suppose we should still consider the possibility that she committed suicide.”
“Give me an answer, Michael.”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“I need to know if she died in my place.” How could Brooke ever forgive herself? Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut, fighting the tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me, too.”
MICHAEL HADN’T wanted to make her feel guilty for her roommate’s death. If anyone was to blame, it was him. He’d known about the threat and hadn’t moved quickly enough. That wasn’t a mistake he’d make a second time. “Where were you headed tonight?”
“Glenwood Springs.”
“Why so far away?”
“My budget. Glenwood is less expensive. And I wanted to get away from all this. From Sally’s death.” Her voice began to quaver. “But I can’t get away. Not when I could be responsible for her death. I can’t run fast enough or far enough to hide from the guilt.”
Covering her face with her hands, she leaned forward. Her long hair tumbled around her face. Her shoulders shook convulsively as she wept.
He pulled into a parking lot outside a convenience store on the outskirts of town. Slipping the car into Park, he kept the engine running and the heater cranked on High. Though it wasn’t snowing, these mountains were freezing cold.
Tentatively, he reached toward her. After all these years as a cop, he still didn’t know how to handle a woman who was crying. He liked it better when Brooke was snarling at him, brandishing a butcher knife. At least he knew how to handle that. Her tears made him feel helpless.
When he touched her shoulder, she pulled away—a standard reaction from a woman who had been abused. From Brooke’s records, he knew that she was divorced and had taken out a restraining order against her ex-husband. He suspected there was a lot more to that story.
She turned her tear-stained face toward him. “I’m okay. We can go.”
“If you’d like,” he said, “I could go get you some water. Or coffee.”
“I’m all right.”
She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving smudges of mascara under her bright blue eyes. Her nose was red, and her full lips pinched together to hold back more sobs. Bedraggled and exhausted, she was a mess. His mama would have said that Brooke looked like something the cat dragged in. And yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off this beautiful, vulnerable woman. Her pain and sorrow were raw, honest.
“You’re staying with me tonight,” he said. “In my hotel room. I’ll sleep on the sofa, and you can take the bed.”
“I don’t think so.” She tossed her head, sending ripples through her auburn hair. “I lost control for a moment, but I haven’t lost my mind.”
“This topic isn’t up for discussion. The only way I’ll know you’re safe is if I can keep an eye on you.”
“What about my car?”
“I’ll take care of it. The only thing you need to worry about is getting some sleep.”
As he drove into Aspen, he listened with half an ear while she told him she was capable of taking care of herself and certainly didn’t need him hanging around like some kind of cut-rate bodyguard. She wanted to be alone, needing solitude to regroup.
But finally she admitted her exhaustion. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stay with you for one night. It’s not like this is a date or anything.”
“Far from it.”
The fact that she is a beautiful and desirable woman doesn’t matter a whit. My mission is to keep her alive. No one else would die at the hand of Robby Lee Warren’s avenger. In that way, Michael would honor the vow he’d made to the memory of Grant Rawlins.
At the hotel, he turned his car keys over to the valet while Brooke looked at him with a curious expression.
“Nice hotel,” she said.
“I thought so.”
“At the boutique this afternoon, you didn’t wince when I told you how much those gorgeous leather gloves cost.”
He nodded.
“There aren’t many cops who can afford the prices in Aspen.”
“I suppose Aspen is a bit pricey.” He glanced at the streets of the mountain town, decorated with garlands and sparkling lights. “Reminds me of a Christmas card.”
“Classy but quaint,” she said. “When I lived in Atlanta, I always missed the snow at Christmastime.”
“I could do without the cold.”
At the door to the hotel, a young man in jeans and a ski patrol parka called out, “Brooke! Hey, Brooke!”
She held up a hand to acknowledge the guy, but she clearly didn’t want to talk to him.
He hustled closer—close enough that Michael could smell the beer on his breath when he said, “I heard about what happened to Sally.”
Brooke edged closer to Michael. “There was nothing I could do.”
“It was suicide, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“I never knew anybody who killed themselves. Amazing.” He dragged his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. In spite of the mountain cold, he wasn’t wearing gloves or a hat. “Wait until Tyler hears about this.”
Tyler who? Michael had to wonder. Despite his conviction that Sally had been mistakenly killed by the serial killer, further investigation might be necessary.
In a glance, he analyzed the man who stood before him—a typical tanned ski bum, carefree and full of beer. But he had an edge, an anger in the depths of his brown eyes. Michael held out his hand and introduced himself.
After a muscular handshake, the young man said, “I’m Peter Thorne.”
“And you were friends with Sally,” Michael said.
“Hell, I slept with her.”
Beside him, he heard Brooke inhale a sharp gasp. “That’s enough, Peter.”
“I might have been her first score when she got to Aspen,” he said. “Didn’t take Sally long to move on to bigger fish, though. Guys who were famous and rich, like Tyler Hennessey.”
“Never heard of him,” Michael said.
“Man, you are definitely not from Aspen. Tyler’s a superstar. For sure, he’ll be going to the Olympics in snowboarding.”
Michael barely knew what snowboarding was. “So, Sally dumped you for this superstar?”
He gave a hard laugh. “Dropped me like a landslide.”
Though Michael’s first concern was to get Brooke safely to the room, he wanted to find out more from Peter Thorne. “Breaking up is no fun. That must have ticked you off.”
“I’ll tell you this.” He jabbed a drunken forefinger toward Michael’s chest. “Sally ticked off a lot of people. Am I right, Brooke?”
Silently, she nodded.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Peter, “if this wasn’t a suicide. There are lots of guys who wouldn’t mind seeing Sally Klinger dead.”
“We have to go,” Brooke said. “Good night, Peter.”
Michael watched Peter stagger along the sidewalk. There seemed to be no lack of motive for people who wanted to hurt Brooke’s roommate. Boyfriends. Ex-boyfriends. Her husband.
Even Brooke had admitted that she wanted to get Sally out of her life.
He took another look at the auburn-haired beauty who entered the hotel in front of him. Had her anger toward her roommate turned violent? Was it possible that the woman he’d come to protect from a serial killer was a murderer?
Chapter Four (#ulink_a61b1740-cc4f-5409-8f45-4786805c2d01)
With Brooke asleep in the bedroom in his hotel suite, Michael poured himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon and added ice—a sin to purists, but he liked his liquor cold.
After Grant’s murder, he’d gotten into the habit of having a drink every night before he went to bed in the hope that he wouldn’t lie awake, unable to shut off his mind. The fact that Grant’s killer hadn’t been brought to justice tore him up inside.
For ten years, Michael had been chasing down leads and solving crimes, but his experience as a cop was no help at all when it came to dealing with Grant’s murder. He raised his glass to the memory of his friend. Here’s to a fallen comrade. A good man, a good soldier, a good friend. Semper Fi.
The bourbon rolled across his tongue, leaving a mellow aftertaste. The hotel’s concierge had stocked the kitchenette with the things he’d requested: milk, fruit and bourbon. Two healthy items out of three wasn’t bad.
The hotel was turning out to be more than adequate. The spacious living room with a view of the ski slope had a kitchenette and a small bathroom of its own. In spite of the earthy Southwestern colors, the rustic furniture reminded him of his uncle Elmo’s hunting lodge. Although the hunting lodge had just about as much class as a rusted tin can.
He listened but heard no sound from the bedroom. Within minutes after Brooke said good-night and closed the bedroom door, he heard her running the shower in the bathroom. If his prior experience with victims held true, he figured she’d be scrubbing herself clean, trying to wash away the memory of violence.
But was she a victim? He gave serious consideration to the possibility that Brooke might have killed her roommate. It seemed unlikely that Brooke had the necessary physical strength to haul Sally through the house and fling her over the balcony. Also, when he arrived on the scene, Brooke’s desperation was real—she wanted to help Sally, to save her.
Nope, Brooke wasn’t a killer.
He had the sense that she was stressed to her breaking point, though. It seemed that her life had been a rough ride, and one more bump in the road—finding her roommate dead—could send her over the edge. Sally’s death wasn’t just a bump in the road—it was more like getting mowed down by a trauma the size of a semi-truck.
Crossing the room, he turned on the gas fireplace and sat on the sofa. His laptop rested on the coffee table in front of him. Time to review his research on the lady who had taken over his bedroom. Thirty-two years old. No arrests. No criminal record. She’d been secretary of the Atlanta Junior League. Active in charity events, her picture popped up on the society page. The black-and-white photo showed a slender, unsmiling woman standing beside an athleticlooking guy in a tux. Her husband, Thomas. She’d taken out a restraining order on him and filed two police reports claiming that he’d harassed her. After a prolonged separation and court battle, their divorce was final four months ago. She’d left town almost immediately afterward.
What made this lady tick? She’d readily admitted that she sometimes saw things that weren’t there but wasn’t currently on medications. Very likely she’d been seeing a therapist. It sure would be handy to talk to that counselor, but psychiatrists wouldn’t talk without a warrant—and sometimes not even then.
First thing tomorrow, he’d put in a call to a friend in the Atlanta police department and see if he could unearth any pertinent information on Brooke Johnson.
Stripped down to his shorts, he pulled the sofa into a bed and got between the sheets. He closed his eyes and relaxed into unconsciousness.
HIS DREAM state didn’t last all night. A sound from behind the bedroom door pulled him awake. Immediately, he was out of bed and on his feet. The digital clock in the kitchen showed the time: it was 1:07 a.m. Poised for action, he listened hard. The sound came again—a small whimper. He wasn’t surprised that this subtle noise woke him. Ever since serving in a combat zone, he’d been a light sleeper.
What was going on in that bedroom? It didn’t seem possible that an intruder had broken in. They were on the third floor, and there was no access through the windows. All the same, he needed to check on Brooke’s safety.
Gun in hand, he eased the bedroom door open. Moonlight poured through the window.
He saw her curled up in a tight ball with the covers thrown aside. Her shoulders trembled, and he realized that she had made the noise. It was a quiet sob that tore at his heart. She uncoiled and rolled over, her head thrashing back and forth in denial. Her eyes were closed—she was still asleep and dreaming of her own private sorrows.
He approached the bed and placed his gun on the nightstand. Standing over her, he couldn’t help but admire her long, slender legs and slim torso. Her dark red hair—the rich color of cherry wood—tangled around her face. Her full lips moved, but no words came out.
Careful not to disturb her, he pulled the comforter back over her. Very gently, he smoothed the hair off her face.
A long, low groan pushed through her lips. She seemed to relax; her breath came more easily. In the moonlight, her skin was luminescent. Her delicate features shone with a natural beauty that was a wonder to behold.
But he couldn’t allow himself to be attracted to her. He hadn’t come all the way across the country to find a lover. Taking his gun from the table, he left her bedroom and returned to the sofa bed.
Less than an hour later, she cried out again. This time, it was a loud shout.
Michael bolted from sleep and ran to her bedroom. He found her cowering in the corner beside the open drapes, as if she was trying to protect herself from a beating.
When she saw him, she stood up straight. Her body was stiff; tension radiated from every pore. In a shaky voice, she asked, “Where am I?”
“In a hotel in Aspen.”
His words seemed to confuse her. She shook her head. Her hands clenched into two fists, and she raised them to her mouth. “Who are you?”
“Michael Shaw,” he said as gently as possible. “I’m not going to hurt you, Brooke.”
Her gaze focused on the gun he held in his hand. “Leave me alone. Please. Please.”
“You’re safe, Brooke.” He set the gun down on the dresser. “I’m here to protect you. You can go back to bed. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
Stiffly, she edged along the wall until she reached the bed. Her movements were clumsy as she got under the covers. “You can go. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Go,” she said. “Please. Go away.”
He wasn’t sure that she was awake. Not fully conscious, anyway. Caught up in her nightmare, she’d lost track of the present, hurtling backward in time to relive a bad experience. Her behavior reminded him of combat veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder.
Though she hadn’t been to war, some parts of her life must have felt like a battlefield. That ex-husband of hers had really done a number on her.
THE NEXT morning, Brooke sat across the table from Michael, eating the breakfast he’d ordered from room service. Waffles for him. Eggs Benedict for her. She’d already taken a shower and washed her hair. All in all, she felt okay in spite of her nightmares and the nagging half memory that she’d done something embarrassing last night, like sleepwalking.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and added her usual three packets of sugar. Her own version of extra sweet tasted better to her than any of the fancy concoctions from the coffee specialty shops.
Her first bite of egg was excellent. The second even better. She dug in, glad to be hungry. She’d need all her strength to get through today.
“I usually don’t eat so much breakfast,” she said.
“My aunt Hester used to say it was the most important meal of the day.”
“Aunt Hester, huh? She sounds like something out of an antebellum novel.”
“She was real. A true Southern belle.”
His voice struck exactly the right tone of friendliness, but there was something in his eyes that worried her. He seemed to be taking her measure, deciding how he ought to handle her.
And she was also wary—unsure if she wanted his help but afraid to be on her own. If there truly was a serial killer after her, she could do a lot worse than having this handsome cop from Birmingham as a protector.
“I want to thank you,” she said, “for letting me stay here last night.”
“No problem.” He took a huge bite of waffle, drizzled with syrup and butter. “I’m glad you didn’t have to drive all the way across the mountain to Glenwood Springs.”
“So am I.”
Her decision to drive toward Glenwood Springs hadn’t been entirely logical, but she had wanted to put distance between herself and the place where Sally died. Her instinct had been to run—to escape the inevitable gossip and avoid the questions.
She knew what it was like to be at the center of a terrible situation. When her marriage exploded, she’d faced constant, cruel, judgmental scrutiny. Though Atlanta ranked as one of the largest cities in the South, her shame made the streets shrink to a microcosm. Everywhere she went—to her job, to the grocery store, to the gym—she encountered people who knew her and Thomas. Some looked upon her with pity. Others regarded her with disgust, unable to understand how she could leave her very influential, very handsome husband. How dare she take out a restraining order against him? Clearly she was a crazy, ungrateful witch.
They couldn’t know what happened inside their marriage, and she was too proud to tell the truth. No woman wants to admit that she allowed herself to be trapped in an abusive relationship. She should have left Thomas much sooner than she did.
She attacked her eggs with renewed vigor.
“You’ll be staying here again tonight,” he said.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure the police will be done with my house.”
“Even so, you’ll need to have the locks changed. And I’ll be hiring a cleaning service to put things back in order.”
He was right about the locks. “I can’t let you pay for a cleaning service. After I get my car fixed, I can—”
“Already taken care of,” he said. “I made a phone call last night. Your tire is repaired, and your car is parked in the hotel garage.”
She should have been grateful, but there was something unnerving about having him step in and run her life. She needed to set some boundaries. Laying her fork down on her plate, she confronted him directly. “I insist on paying for the repair. How much do I owe you?”
“Money isn’t a problem.”
It hadn’t escaped her notice that this was a very deluxe suite in a hotel that wasn’t cheap. The classic Southwestern style was gorgeous. And the master bathroom had a Jacuzzi, polished granite countertops and pewter fixtures. From the little she knew about his background, she didn’t expect him to be wealthy. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
He looked up from the waffle, which was rapidly disappearing. “Why what?”
“Why isn’t money a problem?”
Avoiding her gaze, he refilled his coffee cup. No sugar for him. “Family inheritance.”
His terse response made her think he was uncomfortable talking about himself. His reticence made her even more curious, of course. “When I think of Birmingham, I think steel. Was that the business your family was in?”
“Steel and manufacturing. Then we moved into farming. My sister runs the business, and she’s branched into biotech research, which has turned out to be profitable and just might save the world.”
“And you have a share in this family business?”
“I’m on the board of directors.”
That explained why he had money but said very little about Michael himself. “You could have been a gentleman farmer, but you went into the Marines?”
“Signing up for military service is something that every male in the Shaw family has done for generations. It’s tradition.”
“Afterward, why did you become a cop?”
He sipped his coffee and shrugged his broad shoulders. The forest green of his crewneck sweater almost matched the color of his eyes. “My sister and my mama have asked me that very question about ten million times. I don’t have a real good answer.”
“I’d like to know,” she said. “Since we’re going to be spending some time together, it would help if I understood a little bit about you.”
“Same here.” He leaned forward. “I’d like to know about you, Brooke.”
Exploring her past was a perilous journey, but she had plenty of practice in saying just enough. “You first. Why are you a cop?”
“My time in the Marines got cut short. I was given a medical discharge after I had a pretty severe head injury. I was in a coma for a week. It happened in the same incident that cost Grant Rawlins his leg.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Mostly. I have occasional vertigo.”
To her eyes, he appeared to be in peak physical condition. She had a sudden image of Michael wearing only black boxer shorts. She saw sinewy arms, muscular thighs and a gun in his hand. She blinked to erase that thought, concentrating one hundred percent on the remains of her breakfast. “Please continue.”
“When I left the Corps, it didn’t seem like I’d completed my mission. In war zones, I saw a lot of injustice. Cruelty. Pain. I’ll spare you the details.”
Though his expression didn’t change, she sensed his tension as he continued. “I was left with the feeling that I needed to do what I could to make things right. Being a cop seemed like a good fit. To serve and protect.”
His sincerity and idealism lifted him in her estimation. He was a rich man who could have coasted through life. Instead, he truly wanted to help others. “That’s very impressive.”
“Now it’s my turn,” he said. “I have a few questions for you, starting with—”
“Wait.” She glanced at her clock. “I’m afraid that discussion will have to wait. I’m supposed to open the shop today, and I need to be there by nine thirty.”
“You’re putting me off,” he said. It was a statement, not a question; clearly he recognized her avoidance tactic. “If you don’t tell me about yourself, I’ll have to rely on what other people say about you.”
What other people? She brushed his comment away. “We’ll talk about me later. I promise.”
“That’s fine,” he said in an exaggerated drawl that made two words sound like ten. “Before we leave this room, we need to lay down some ground rules.”
She didn’t like the sound of this. “Such as?”
“Until I learn otherwise, I’m going to assume that you’re in danger. Don’t go anywhere by yourself.”
“What about work?”
“I’ll go with you to the shop.You can open up. Then you can call somebody to fill in for you.” He finished off the last bite of waffle and dropped his napkin on the plate. “I’m sure your employer will understand if you take a couple days off.”
That was very likely true. Hannah Lewis was an understanding boss. But Brooke preferred working. The best way to handle a crisis was to keep busy. “I’ll be safe at the boutique. Nobody is going to attack me with other people standing around.”
“I was in your little shop yesterday,” he reminded her. “It’s not exactly a hotbed of activity.”
“Yesterday was the Tuesday after Thanksgiving weekend. Of course, it was slow.”
“And today?”
“I’m pretty sure there will be a crowd,” she said. “Everybody is going to be stopping by, wanting to know the details about Sally’s death. Aspen isn’t Birmingham. This is a small community. People will be curious.”
“Nonetheless, you need to make arrangements for later this morning,” he said. “At eleven o’clock, you need to report to McGraw’s office. I’ll be there, too. I have an appointment to talk to the feds.”
“The FBI?” Though she wanted to deny that she was the next target of a serial killer, a shiver trickled down her spine.
He crossed the room to the coffee table and picked up his laptop. After punching a few keys, he turned the screen toward her. “This is Robby Lee Warren’s oldest brother. His name is Stonewall Jackson Warren. He goes by Jackson.”
“Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson?”
“The other brothers are Jefferson Davis and John Morgan. All generals in the Confederate Army.”
“Should I be asking if all your relatives who enlisted were fighting for the South?”
“Probably not,” he said.
She looked at the screen. Though Stonewall Jackson Warren was smiling in the picture, he had a piercing stare. His eyebrows arched like wings over his brown eyes. He had dark hair, a long face and prominent cheekbones. “He’s not bad looking.”
“Con men usually aren’t,” Michael said. “Jackson Warren has a history of running scams and pulling off minor frauds. He’s been arrested twice but never been brought to trial.”
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