Dangerous
Diana Palmer
Jacobsville, Texas, is a risky place for the heart… Tall, lean and headstrong, FBI agent Kilraven lives by his own rules. And one of those rules includes keeping his hands off Jacobsville’s resident sweetheart, Winnie, no matter the temptation. Shy and innocent, she couldn’t handle a man like him – a merciless man with a dangerous past.Yet Winnie’s still determined to stand by his side and, if they are to have a future together, her ruthless Texan will need to confront old secrets and let her into his guarded heart.Discover Diana… The author of over a hundred books, Diana Palmer is one of the top ten romance authors in America. This is sweeping, intense, passionate romance at its very best!
Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Diana Palmer
“Nobody does it better.”
—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard
“Palmer knows how to make the sparks fly.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Diana Palmer is a mesmerising storyteller
who captures the essence of what a
romance should be.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Nobody tops Diana Palmer when it comes to delivering
pure, undiluted romance.
I love her stories.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz
Also byDiana Palmer
NIGHT FEVER
ONE NIGHT IN NEW YORK
BEFORE SUNRISE
OUTSIDER
LAWMAN
HARD TO HANDLE
FEARLESS
DIAMOND SPUR
TRUE COLOURS
HEARTLESS
INNOCENCE PROTECTED
WED IN WINTER
About the Author
The prolific author of over one hundred books, DIANA PALMER got her start as a newspaper reporter. One of the top ten romance writers in America, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humour. Diana lives with her family in Georgia.
DIANA
PALMER
DANGEROUS
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Cindy Angerett, 9-1-1 dispatcher,
Beaver County, Pennsylvania,
and to Emergency Services Personnel everywhere,
who give their time generously,
both on and off the clock, to help someone in need.
1
Kilraven hated mornings. He especially hated mornings like this one, when he was expected to go to a party and participate in Christmas gift-giving. He, the rest of the police, fire and emergency services people in Jacobsville, Texas, had all drawn names around the big Christmas tree in the EOC, the 911 emergency operations center. Today was the day when presents, all anonymous, were to be exchanged.
He sipped black coffee in the Jacobsville Police Station and wished he could get out of it. He glared at Cash Grier, who smiled obliviously and ignored him.
Christmas was the most painful time to him. It brought back memories of seven years ago, when his life had seemed to end. Nightmarish visions haunted him. He saw them when he slept. He worked his own shifts and even volunteered to relieve other Jacobsville police officers when they needed a substitute. He hated his own company. But he hated crowds far more. Besides, it was a sad day, sort of. He’d had a big black Chow keeping him company at his rental house. He’d had to give it away because he wasn’t allowed to keep animals at his apartment in San Antonio, where he would be returning soon. Still, Bibb the Chow had gone to live with a young boy, a neighbor, who loved animals and had just lost his own Chow. So it was fated, he guessed. He still missed the dog, though.
Now, he was expected to smile and socialize at a party and enthuse over a gift that would almost certainly be a tie that he would accept and never wear, or a shirt that was a size too small, or a book he would never read. People giving gifts were kindhearted, but mostly they bought things that pleased themselves. It was a rare person who could observe someone else and give just the right present; one that would be treasured.
At his job—his real job, not this role as a small-town police officer that he’d assumed as part of his covert operation in south Texas near the border with Mexico—he had to wear suits from time to time. Here in Jacobsville, he never wore a suit. A tie would be a waste of money to the person who gave him one for Christmas. He was sure it would be a tie. He hated ties.
“Why don’t you just string me up outside and set fire to me?” Kilraven asked Cash Grier with a glowering look.
“Christmas parties are fun,” Cash replied. “You need to get into the spirit of the thing. Six or seven beers, and you’d fit right in.”
The glare got worse. “I don’t drink,” he reminded his temporary boss.
“Now isn’t that a coincidence?” Cash exclaimed. “Neither do I!”
“Then why are we going to a party in the first place, if neither of us drink?” the younger man asked.
“They won’t serve alcohol at the party. And for another, it’s good public relations.”
“I hate the public and I don’t have relations,” Kilraven scoffed.
“You do so have relations,” came the tongue-in-cheek reply. “A half brother named Jon Blackhawk. A stepmother, too, somewhere.”
Kilraven made a face.
“It’s only for an hour or so,” Cash said in a gentler tone. “It’s almost Christmas. You don’t want to ruin the staff party now, do you?”
“Yes,” Kilraven said with a bite in his deep voice.
Cash looked down at his coffee cup. “Winnie Sinclair will be disappointed if you don’t show up. You’re leaving us soon to go back to San Antonio. It would make her day to see you at the party.”
Kilraven averted his gaze to the front window beyond which cars were driving around the town square that was decorated with its Santa, sled and reindeer and the huge Christmas tree. Streamers and colored lights were strung across every intersection. There was a tree in the police station, too, decked out in holiday colors. Its decorations were, to say the least, unique. There were little handcuffs and toy guns and various emergency services vehicles in miniature, including police cars. As a joke, someone had strung yellow police tape around it.
Kilraven didn’t want to think about Winnie Sinclair. Over the past few months, she’d become a part of his life that he was reluctant to give up. But she didn’t know about him, about his past. Someone had hinted at it because her attitude toward him had suddenly changed. The shy smiles and rapt glances he’d been getting had gone into eclipse, so that now she was formal and polite when they spoke over the police band while he was on duty. He rarely saw her. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to be around her. She’d withdrawn, and it would be less painful not to close the distance. Of course it would.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I guess a few Christmas carols won’t kill me,” he muttered.
Cash grinned. “I’ll get Sergeant Miller to sing you the one he composed, just for us.”
Kilraven glared at him. “I’ve heard it, and please don’t.”
“He doesn’t have a bad voice,” Cash argued.
“For a carp, no.”
Cash burst out laughing. “Suit yourself, Kilraven.” He frowned. “Don’t you have a first name?”
“Yes, I do, but I don’t use it, and I’m not telling it to you.”
“I’ll bet payroll knows what it is,” Cash mused. “And the bank.”
“They won’t tell,” he promised. “I have a gun.”
“So do I, and mine’s bigger,” Cash returned smartly.
“Listen, I have to do concealed carry in my real job,” he reminded the older man, “and it’s hard to fit a 1911 Colt.45 ACP in my waistband so that it doesn’t show.”
Cash held up both hands. “I know, I know. I used to do concealed carry, too. But now I don’t have to, and I can carry a big gun if I want to.”
“At least you don’t carry a wheel gun, like Dunn does.” He sighed, indicating Assistant Chief Judd Dunn, who was perched on the edge of his desk talking to a fellow officer, with a.45 Ruger Vaquero in a fancy leather holster on his hip.
“He belongs to the Single Action Shooting Society,” Cash reminded him, “and they’re having a competition this afternoon. He’s our best shot.”
“After me,” Kilraven said smugly.
“He’s our best resident shot,” came the reply. “You’re our best migrating shot.”
“I won’t migrate far. Just to San Antonio.” Kilraven’s silver eyes grew somber. “I’ve enjoyed my time here. Less pressure.”
Cash imagined part of the reduced pressure was the absence of the bad memories Kilraven still hadn’t faced, the death of his family seven years ago in a bloody shooting. Which brought to mind a more recent case, a murder that was still being investigated by the sheriffs department with some help from Alice Mayfield Jones, the forensic expert from San Antonio who was engaged to resident rancher Harley Fowler.
“Have you told Winnie Sinclair about her uncle?” Cash asked in a hushed tone, so that they wouldn’t be overheard.
Kilraven shook his head. “I’m not sure that I should at this stage of the investigation. Her uncle is dead. Nobody is going to threaten Winnie or Boone or Clark Sinclair because of him. I’m not even sure what his connection to the murder victim is. No use upsetting her until I have to.”
“Has anyone followed up on his live-in girlfriend?”
“Not with any more luck than they had on the first interview,” Kilraven replied. “She’s so stoned on coke that she doesn’t know the time of day. She can’t remember anything that’s of any use to us. Meanwhile, the police are going door to door around that strip mall near the apartment where the murder victim lived, trying to find anybody who knew the guy. Messy murder. Very messy.”
“There was another case, that young girl who was found in a similar condition seven years ago,” Cash recalled.
Kilraven nodded. “Yes. Just before I … lost my family,” he said hesitantly. “The circumstances are similar, but there’s no connection that we can find. She went to a party and disappeared. In fact, witnesses said she never showed up at the party, and her date turned out to be fictional.”
Cash studied the younger man quietly. “Kilraven, you’re never going to heal until you’re able to talk about what happened.”
Kilraven’s silver eyes flashed. “What use is talk? I want the perp.”
He wanted vengeance. It was in his eyes, in the hard set of his jaw, in his very posture. “I know how that feels,” Cash began.
“The hell you do,” Kilraven bit off. “The hell you do!” He got up and walked off without another word.
Cash, who’d seen the autopsy photos, didn’t take offense. He was sorry for the other man. But there was nothing anybody could do for him.
KILRAVEN DID GO TO the party. He stood next to Cash without looking at him. “Sorry I lost my temper like that,” he said gruffly.
Cash only smiled. “Oh, I don’t get ruffled by bad temper anymore.” He chuckled. “I’ve mellowed.”
Kilraven turned to face him with wide eyes. “You have?”
Cash glared at him. “It was an accident.”
“What was, the pail of soapy water, or the sponge in his mouth?”
Cash grimaced. “He shouldn’t have called me a bad name when I was washing my car. I wasn’t even the arresting officer, it was one of the new patrol officers.”
“He figured you were the top of the food chain, and he didn’t like people seeing him carried off from the dentist’s office in a squad car,” Kilraven said gleefully.
“Obviously, since he was the dentist. He put one of his prettier patients under with laughing gas and was having a good time with her when the nurse walked in and caught him.”
“It does explain why he moved here in the first place, and settled into a small-town practice, when he’d been working in a major city,” Cash mused. “He’d only been in practice here for a month when it happened, back in the summer.”
“Big mistake, to start raging at you in your own yard.”
“I’m sure he noticed,” Cash replied.
“Didn’t you have to replace his suit …?”
“I bought him a very nice replacement,” Cash argued. “The judge said I had to make it equal in price to the one I ruined with soap and water.” He smiled angelically. “She never said it had to be the same color.”
Kilraven grimaced. “Where in hell did you even find a yellow and green plaid suit?”
Cash leaned closer. “I have connections in the clothing industry.”
Kilraven chuckled. “The dentist left town the same day. Think it was the suit?”
“I very much doubt it. I think it was the priors I pulled up on him,” Cash replied. “I did just mention that I’d contacted two of his former victims.”
“And gave them the name of a very determined detective out of Houston, I heard.”
“Detectives are useful.”
Kilraven was still staring at him.
He shrugged.
“Well, I’m never talking to you when you’re washing your car, and you can bet money on that,” Kilraven concluded.
Cash just grinned.
The 911 operations center was full. The nine-foot-tall Christmas tree had lights that were courtesy of the operations staff. The LED bulbs glittered prettily in all colors. Underneath, there was a treasure trove of wrapped packages. They were all anonymous. Kilraven glared at them, already anticipating the unwanted tie.
“It’s a tie,” Kilraven muttered.
“Excuse me?” Cash asked.
“My present. Whoever got me something, it will be a tie. It’s always a tie. I’ve got a closet full of the damned things.”
“You never know,” Cash said philosophically. “You might be surprised.”
Amid the festive Christmas music, the staff of the operations center welcomed their visitors with a brief speech about the hard work they put in all year and listed some of their accomplishments. They thanked all the emergency services personnel, including EMTs, fire and police, sheriff’s department and state police, Texas Rangers and state and federal law enforcement for their assistance. The long refreshment tables were indicated, and guests were invited to help themselves. Then the presents were handed out.
Kilraven was briefly stunned at the size of his. Unless it was a very large tie, or camouflaged, he wasn’t sure what he’d snagged here. He turned the large square over in his hands with evident curiosity.
Little blonde Winnie Sinclair watched him out of the corner of her dark eyes. She’d worn her blond, wavy hair long, around her shoulders, because someone had said Kilraven didn’t like ponytails or buns. She wore a pretty red dress, very conservative, with a high neckline. She wished she could find out more about their enigmatic officer. Sheriff Carson Hayes had said some of Kilraven’s family had died in a murder years before, but she hadn’t been able to worm any more information out of him. Now they had a real, messy murder victim—actually their second one—killed in Jacobs County, and there was a rumor around law enforcement circles that a woman in San Antonio had known the victim and died for it. There were even more insistent rumors that the cold case was about to be reopened.
Whatever happened, Kilraven was supposed to leave and go back to his federal job in San Antonio after Christmas. Winnie had been morose and quiet for days. She’d actually drawn Kilraven’s name for that secret present, although she had a hunch her coworkers had arranged it. They knew how she felt about him.
She’d spent hours trying to decide what to give him. Not a tie, she thought. Everybody gave ties or handkerchiefs or shaving kits. No, her gift had to be something distinctive, something that he wouldn’t find on any store shelf. In the end, she put her art talent to work and painted him a very realistic portrait of a raven, surrounded by colorful beads as a border. She didn’t know why. It seemed the perfect subject. Ravens were loners, highly intelligent, mysterious. Just like Kilraven. She had it matted at the local frame shop. It didn’t look bad, she thought. She hoped he might like it. Of course, she couldn’t admit that she’d given it to him. The gifts were supposed to remain anonymous. But he wouldn’t know anyway because she’d never told him that she painted as a hobby.
Her life was magic just because Kilraven had come into it. Winnie came from great wealth, but she and her brothers rarely let it show. She enjoyed working for a living, making her own money. She had a little red VW that she washed and polished by hand, bought out of her weekly salary. It was her pride and joy. She’d worried at first that Kilraven might be intimidated by her monied background. But he didn’t seem to feel resentment, or even envy. In fact, she’d seen him dressed up once for a conference he was going to. His sophistication was evident. He seemed at home anywhere.
She was going to be miserable when he was gone. But it might be the best thing. She was crazy about him. Cash Grier said that Kilraven had never faced his demons, and that he wasn’t fit for any sort of relationship until he had. That had depressed Winnie and affected her attitude toward Kilraven. Not that it squelched her feelings for him.
While she was watching him with helpless delight, he opened the present. He stood apart from the other officers in his department, his dark head bent over the wrapping paper, his silver eyes intent on what he was doing. At last, the ribbon and paper came away. He picked up the painting and looked at it, narrow-eyed, so still that he seemed to have stopped breathing. All at once, his silver eyes shot up and pierced right into Winnie’s dark ones. Her heart stopped in her chest. He knew! But he couldn’t!
He gave her a glare that might have stopped traffic, turned around and walked right out of the party with the painting held by its edge in one big hand. He didn’t come back.
Winnie was sick at heart. She’d offended him. She knew she had. He’d been furious. She fought tears as she sipped punch and nibbled cookies and pretended to be having a great time.
KILRAVEN WENT THROUGH the motions of doing his job until his shift ended. Then he got into his own car and drove straight up to San Antonio, to the apartment of his half brother, Jon Blackhawk.
Jon was watching a replay of a soccer match. He got up to answer the door, dressed in sweatpants and nothing else, with his loosened black, thick hair hanging down to his waist.
Kilraven gave him a hard stare. “Practicing your Indian look?”
Jon made a face. “Getting comfortable. Come in. Isn’t this a little late for a brotherly visit?”
Kilraven lifted the bag he was carrying, put it on the coffee table and pulled out the painting. His eyes were glittering. “You told Winnie Sinclair about the raven pictures.”
Jon caught his breath when he saw the painting. Not only was it of a raven, Melly’s favorite bird, but it even had the beadwork in the same colors framing it against a background of swirling oranges and reds.
He realized, belatedly, that he was being accused. He lifted his dark eyes to his brother’s light ones. “I haven’t spoken to Winnie Sinclair. Ever, unless I’m mistaken. How did she know?”
The older man’s eyes were still flashing. “Somebody had to tell her. When I find out who, I’ll strangle him.”
“Just a thought,” Jon pondered, “but didn’t you tell me that she called for backup on a domestic dispute when you didn’t call and ask for it?”
Kilraven calmed down a little. “She did,” he recalled. “Saved my butt, too. The guy had a shotgun and he was holding his wife and daughter hostage with it because the wife was trying to get a divorce. Backup arrived with sirens and lights blaring. Diverted him just long enough for me to subdue him.”
“How did she know?” Jon asked.
Kilraven frowned. “I asked. She said she had a feeling. The caller hadn’t told her about the shotgun, just that her estranged husband had walked in and made threats.”
“Our father used to have those flashes of insight,” Jon reminded him. “It saved his life on more than one occasion. Restless feelings, he called them.”
“Like on the night my family died,” Kilraven said, sitting down heavily in an easy chair in front of the muted television. “He went to get gas in his car for the next day when he had a trip out of town for the Bureau. He could have gone anytime, but he went then. When he came back …”
“You and half the city police force were inside.” Jon winced. “I wish they could have spared you that.”
Kilraven’s eyes were terrible. “I can’t get it out of my mind. I live with it, night and day.”
“So did Dad. He drank himself to death. He thought maybe if he hadn’t gone to get gas, they’d have lived.”
“Or he’d have died.” He was recalling Alice Mayfield Jones’s lecture of the week before. “Alice Jones read me the riot act about that word if.” He smiled sadly. “I guess she’s right. We can’t change what happened.” He looked at Jon. “But I’d give ten years of my life to catch the guys who did it.”
“We’ll get them,” Jon said. “I promise you, we will. Had supper yet?” he added.
Kilraven shook his head. “No appetite.” He looked at the painting Winnie had done. “You remember how Melly used her crayons?” he asked softly. “Even at the age of three, she had great talent …” He stopped abruptly.
Jon’s dark eyes softened. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say her name in seven years, Mac,” he said gently.
Kilraven grimaced. “Don’t call me …!”
“Mac is a perfectly nice nickname for McKuen,” he said stubbornly. “You’re named for one of the most famous poets of the seventies, Rod McKuen. I’ve got a book of his poems around here somewhere. A lot of them were made into songs.”
Kilraven looked at the bulging bookcases. There were plastic bins of books stacked in the corner. “How do you ever read all those?” he asked, aghast.
Jon glared at him. “I could ask you the same question. You’ve got even more books than I have. The only things you have more of are gaming discs.”
“It makes up for a social life, I guess,” he confessed with a sheepish grin.
“I know.” Jon grimaced. “It affected us both. I got gun-shy about getting involved with women after it happened.”
“So did I,” Kilraven confessed. He studied the painting. “I was furious about that,” he said, indicating it. “The beadwork is just like what Melly drew.”
“She was a sweet, beautiful child,” Jon said quietly. “It isn’t fair to put her so far back in your memories that she’s lost forever.”
Kilraven drew a long breath. “I guess so. The guilt has eaten me alive. Maybe Alice is right. Maybe we only think we have control over life and death.”
“Maybe so.” Jon smiled. “I’ve got leftover pizza in the fridge, and soda. There’s a killer soccer match on. The World Cup comes around next summer.”
“Well, whoever I root for will lose, like always,” he replied. He sat down on the sofa. “So, who’s playing?” he asked, nodding toward the television.
WINNIE WAS SICK AT heart when she left after the party to go home. She’d made Kilraven furious, and just before he was due to leave Jacobsville. She probably wouldn’t ever see him again, especially now.
“What in the world happened to you?” her sister-in-law, Keely, asked when she came into the kitchen where the younger woman was making popcorn.
“What do you mean?” Winnie asked, trying to bluff it out.
“Don’t give me that.” Keely put her arms around her and hugged her. “Come on. Tell Keely all about it.”
Winnie burst into tears. “I gave Kilraven a painting. He wasn’t supposed to know it was me. But he did! He looked straight at me, like he hated me.” She sniffed. “I’ve ruined everything!”
“The painting of the raven?” Keely recalled. “It was gorgeous.”
“I thought it looked pretty good,” Winnie replied. “But he glared at me as if he wanted to tear a hole in me, and then he just walked out of the party and never came back.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like ravens,” the other woman suggested gently. “Some people are afraid of birds.”
Winnie laughed, nodding thankfully as Keely put a paper towel in her hands. She dried her eyes. “Kilraven’s not afraid of anything.”
“I suppose not. He does take chances, though.” She frowned. “Didn’t you send backup for him after some attempted shooting lately? They were talking about it at work. One of our girls is related to Shirley, who works with you at the 911 operations center,” she reminded her.
Winnie grimaced. She took her purse off her shoulder, tossed it onto the bar and sat down at the table. “Yes, I did. I don’t know why. I just had a terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen if I didn’t. The caller didn’t say anything about the perp having a gun. But he had a loaded shotgun and he was so drunk, he didn’t care if he killed his estranged wife and their little girl. Kilraven walked right into it.”
They were both remembering an earlier incident, when Winnie was a new dispatcher and she’d failed to mention a gun involved in a domestic dispute. Kilraven had been involved in that one, and he’d given her a lecture about it. She was much more careful now.
“How did you know?” Keely persisted.
“I really couldn’t say.” Winnie laughed. “I’ve had feelings like that all my life, known things that I had no reason to know. My grandmother used to set the table for company when we didn’t even know anybody was coming. They’d show up just when she thought they would. The second sight, she called it.”
“A gift. I’ve heard them say that Cash Grier’s wife, Tippy, has it.”
“So have I.” Winnie shrugged. “I don’t know, though. I just get feelings. Usually they’re bad ones.” She looked up at Keely. “I’ve had one all day. I can’t shake it. And I don’t think Kilraven’s reaction to my gift was the reason. I wonder …”
“Who’s that coming up the driveway?” Boone Sinclair asked, joining them. He brushed a kiss against Keely’s mouth. “Expecting someone?” he asked her, including Winnie in the question.
“No,” Winnie said.
“Me, either,” Winnie replied. “It isn’t Clark?”
He shook his head. “He flew up to Dallas this morning for a meeting with some cattle buyers for me.” He frowned as he went to the window. “Old car,” he remarked. “Well kept, but old. There are two people in it.” His face tautened as a woman got out of the driver’s seat and went around to the passenger side. She stood in the edge of the security lights because it was already dark. Boone recognized her just from the way she walked. She spoke to someone in the car, was handed a briefcase out the window. She smiled, nodded, and turned toward the house. She hesitated just for a minute before she started up the steps to the front door. Boone got a good look at her, then. She was, he thought, the spitting image of Winnie. His face went harder.
Keely knew something was going on from their expressions. Winnie was staring out the window next to Boone, her dark eyes flashing like sirens. Before Keely could ask a single question, Winnie exploded.
“Her!” she exclaimed. “How dare she come here! How dare she!”
2
Winnie stormed out into the hall. Her face was taut with anger.
“Who is she?” Keely asked Boone, concerned. His own face had gone hard. “Our mother,” he said bitterly. “We haven’t seen her since she left. She ran away with our uncle and divorced our dad to marry him.”
“Oh, dear,” Keely said, biting her lip. She looked up at his angry expression. “I think I’ll go on upstairs. It might be better if the two of you saw her alone.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself. I’ll tell you all about it later,” Boone said gently, kissing her.
“Okay.”
WINNIE HAD ALREADY thrown open the front door. She looked at the older version of herself with seething hatred. “What do you want here?” she demanded hotly.
The woman, tall and dignified, her blond hair sprinkled with gray but neatly combed, wearing a dark pantsuit, blinked as if the assault was unexpected. She frowned. “Winona?” she asked.
Winnie turned and stormed back into the living room.
Boone’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re here looking for money,” he began in a cold tone.
“I have a good job,” she replied, puzzled. “Why would I want money from you?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. He stood aside, stone-faced, and let her in the door. She was carrying a briefcase. She looked around, as if she didn’t recognize her surroundings. It had been a very long time since she’d lived here.
She turned to Boone, very businesslike and solemn. “I have some things for you. They belonged to your father, but your uncle took them with him when he … when he and I,” she corrected, forcing the words out through her teeth, “left here.”
“What sort of things?” Boone asked.
“Heirlooms,” she replied.
“Why didn’t our uncle come with you?”
Her eyebrows arched. “He’s been dead for a month. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Sorry,” he said stiffly. “It must be sad for you.”
“I divorced your uncle twelve years ago,” she said flatly. “He’s been living with a woman who makes her living as a low-level drug dealer, selling meth on the streets. She’s an addict herself.” She indicated the briefcase. “I told her these things belonged to her boyfriend’s family and that legal proceedings might ensue if she didn’t hand them over.” Her expression was determined. “They belong here.”
He motioned her into the living room. Winnie was sitting stiffly in an armchair, as welcoming as a cobra.
The older woman sat down gracefully on the sofa, her eyes going to the mantel, over which hung a painting of Boone and Winnie and Clark’s late father. Her gaze lingered on it sadly, but only for seconds. She put the briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. She drew out several items, some made of gold, including pieces of jewelry that were worth a king’s ransom.
“These belonged to your great-grandmother,” she told the other occupants of the room. “She was a high-born Spanish lady from Andalusia who came here with her father to sell a rancher a prize stallion. Your great-grandfather was a ranch foreman who worked for the owner. He had very little money, but grand dreams, and he was a hard worker. She fell in love with him and married him. It was her inheritance that bought this land and built the house that originally sat on it.” She smiled. “They said she could outride any of the cowboys, and that she once actually fought a bull that had gored her husband, using her mantilla as a cape. Saved his life.”
“There’s a painting of her in the upstairs guest bedroom,” Boone said quietly, lifting one of the brooches in his strong, dark hands.
“Why did you bother to bring them back?” Winnie asked coldly.
“They’d have been sold to buy drugs,” she replied simply. “I felt responsible for them. Bruce took them when we left.” Her face hardened. “He felt that he was deliberately left out of your grandfather’s will. He was furious when your father inherited the ranch. He wanted to get even.”
“So he corrupted you and forced you to run away with him,” Winnie said with an icy smile.
“I wasn’t forced,” the older woman said kindly. “I was naive and stupid. And I don’t expect to be welcomed back into the family because I returned a few heirlooms.” She picked up her briefcase and stood up. Her eyes went from her son to her daughter. “Is Clark here?”
Boone shook his head. “On a date.”
She smiled sadly. “I would like to have seen him. It’s been so long.”
“Your choice, wasn’t it?” Winnie demanded. She stood up, too, dark eyes blazing. “Dad hated you for leaving, and I look like you, don’t I? I paid for his pain. Paid for it every miserable day he was alive.”
“I’m sorry,” the older woman said haltingly.
“Sorry. Sorry!” Winnie jerked up her blouse and turned around. “Want to see how sorry you should really be?”
Boone caught his breath at the marks on her back. There were scars. Two of them. They ran across her spine in white trails. “You never told me he did that!” Boone accused, furious.
“He said that if I told, you and Clark would have similar souvenirs,” she bit off, pulling her blouse down.
The older woman winced. So did Boone.
“I’ve wanted to see you for years,” Winnie said, reddening. “I wanted to tell you how much I hated you for running off and leaving us!”
She only nodded. “I don’t blame you, Winona,” she said in a steady, calm voice. “I did a terrible thing, to all of you.” She drew in a long breath and smiled sadly. “You won’t believe it, but there was a price that I had to pay, too.”
“Good,” Winnie bit off. “I’m glad! Now please leave. And don’t come back.”
She whirled and ran up the staircase.
Boone walked his mother to the door and opened it for her. His expression was unrelenting. But his eyes were curious, especially when he saw that she had a passenger in her car. It wasn’t a new car, but it was well kept. He noted her clothing. Not from upscale stores, but serviceable and not cheap. Her shoes were thick soled and laced up. She was immaculately clean, even her fingernails. He wondered what she did for a living. She seemed a sensible woman.
“Thank you for bringing the heirlooms home,” he said after a minute.
Gail Rogers Sinclair looked up at him with quiet pride. “You look like your father, as he did when we were first married.” She frowned. “Didn’t I read that you married this year?”
“Yes. Her name is Keely. She works for a local vet.”
She nodded. “Her mother was killed.”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“At least that crime was quickly solved,” she replied. “This new murder in Jacobsville is getting a lot of attention from the Feds. I don’t think it’s going to be as easy to catch the perpetrator.” She searched his eyes. “There may be a tie from the case to your uncle,” she said calmly. “I’m not sure yet, but it could mean some bad publicity for all three of you. I’ll try to keep it quiet, but these things have a way of getting out. There’s always some resourceful reporter with a reputation to build.”
“That’s true.” He was curious about her familiarity with the case. “How are you involved?” He wanted to know.
“That’s need to know, and you don’t,” she said, gentling the words with a smile. “I understand that Winnie works as a dispatcher with emergency services. I’m very proud of her. It’s a generous thing she does, working for her living. She would never have to.”
“Yes. How is our uncle concerned with the murder?”
“I don’t know that yet. It’s still under investigation. Messy,” she added. “Very, very messy, and it may involve some important people before it’s over. But it shouldn’t cause any problems for you three,” she added. “The murderer doesn’t have anything to fear from you.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I came down to confer with a friend, and I’m late. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see Clark. What does he do?”
“He works with me on the ranch,” Boone said. He was adding up her attitude and her indifference to their wealth and her sadness. “Someday,” he said, “maybe we need to talk.”
She smiled at him with quiet eyes. “There’s nothing more to be said. We can’t change the past. I made mistakes that I can’t ever correct or atone for. Now, I just get on with my job and try to help where I can. Take care. It was very good to see the two of you, even under the circumstances.” She looked at him for a moment more, so much pain in her eyes and in her face that it made him feel guilty.
Finally, she turned and walked down the steps toward the car. Boone watched her, scowling, his hands in his pockets. She got into the car, spoke to a shorter person in the passenger seat, started the engine and slowly drove away.
WINNIE CAME BACK down after the car was gone. Her eyes were wet, her face red with bad temper despite Keely’s comforting upstairs. “She’s gone, then. Good riddance!”
Boone was pensive. “I wish you’d told me what Dad did to you.”
She managed a wan smile. “I wanted to. But I was afraid of what he might do. He really hated me. He said that I was the image of my mother, but he was going to make sure that I never wanted to follow in her footsteps.”
“He kept you in church every time it was open,” he replied quietly.
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “And threatened every boy who came here to see me. I ended up with a non-existent social life.” She sighed. “I suppose I’m very repressed.”
“You’re also very nice,” Boone said. He put his arms around her and hugged her fondly. “You know, despite the misery of our childhoods, we’ve done pretty well, haven’t we?”
“You certainly have,” she said, wiping away the tears. She smiled. “I love Keely. She’s not only my best friend, now she’s my sister-in-law.”
He was somber. “You saved her life after the rattlesnake bit her,” he said quietly. “She would have died, and I would have been responsible.” His face hardened. “I can’t imagine why I believed such lies about her.”
“I’m sure your ex-girlfriend’s detective was convincing,” she said. “You shouldn’t look back. Keely loves you. She never stopped, not even when she thought you hated her.”
He smiled. “I was a hard case.”
“Well, we’re all victims of our childhood, I suppose. Dad was tough on you, too.”
“He couldn’t beat me down,” he recalled. “He got furious at me, but he respected me.”
“That was probably what saved you from the treatment I got.” She sighed. “It was twelve years ago when she left. I was ten. Ten years old.”
“I was technically an adult,” he recalled. “Clark was in junior high.” He shook his head. “I still don’t understand why she left Dad for our uncle. He was a shallow man, no real character and no work ethic. It’s no surprise to me that he was dealing drugs. He always did look for the easy way to get money. Dad bailed him out of jail more than once for stealing.”
“Yes.” She looked at the heirlooms lying on the coffee table. “It’s surprising that our mother brought those back. She could have sold them for a lot of money.”
“Quite a lot of money,” Boone said. He frowned, recalling what she’d said about their uncle’s possible connection to people suspected in the local murder. He looked at Winnie, but he didn’t say anything about it. She was too shaken already. It could wait. “I wonder who she had with her in the car?” he added suddenly.
She turned. “A boyfriend, maybe,” she said curtly. “I could tell he was male from upstairs. But he looked pretty short.”
“Not our business,” Boone said. He picked up a brooch with a tiny painting of a beautiful little Spanish girl, in her middle to late teens by the look of her, dressed all in black with a mantilla. Her red lipstick and a red rose in her hair under the black lace mantilla were the only bright things in the miniature. Her hair was long, black and shiny. She had a tiny, strange little smile on her lips. Mysterious. He smiled, just looking at it. “I wonder who she was?” he mused aloud.
“Turn it over. Maybe there’s initials or something,” she suggested, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
He did. He frowned. “It’s labeled with a piece of tape. Señorita Rosa Carrera y Sinclair.” He whistled. “This was our great-grandmother, when she was first married! I should have known, but the portrait of her upstairs was painted when she was older.”
Winnie looked at it, took it from his hands and studied the lovely face. “She was very beautiful.” She laughed. “And she fought bulls with a mantilla! She must have been brave.”
“If what I remember hearing from Dad about our great-grandfather is accurate, she had to be brave.”
“Truly.” She put the brooch down and looked at the other treasures. “So many rubies,” she mused. “She must have loved them.”
“You should pick out some of those to wear,” he suggested.
She laughed. “And where would I wear expensive jewelry like this?” she chided. “I work for Jacobs County dispatch. Wouldn’t the girls have a hoot seeing me decked out in these? Shirley would fall out of her chair laughing.”
“You should get out more,” he said somberly.
She gave him a long, sad look. “I’ll never get out, now. Kilraven is leaving after Christmas,” she said. Her face fell. “I gave him the raven painting at the party. He glared at me as if I’d committed murder under his nose and stormed out without even speaking to me.” She flushed. “Nothing that ever happened to me hurt so much.”
“I thought the presents were anonymous.”
“They were. I don’t know how he knew it was me. I’ve never told him that I paint.”
“He’s a strange bird,” Boone commented. “He has feelings. Sort of like you do,” he added with a grin. “Sending backup when you thought he was going to a routine domestic fight with no weapons involved.”
She nodded. “He was furious about that, too. But it saved his life.”
“You really ought to see Cash Grier’s wife, Tippy. She has those intuitions, too.”
“She knows things,” Winnie replied. “Whatever sort of mental gift this is, I don’t have her accuracy. I just feel uncomfortable before something bad pops up. Like today,” she said quietly. “I felt sick all day. Now I know why.”
“You do look like her.” He was going to add that their mother used to have odd feelings about things that later happened, but he didn’t.
“Yes,” she said curtly. She looked at the jewelry. “I shouldn’t have been so mean. She did a good thing. But it will never make up for leaving us.”
“She knows that. She said she didn’t come for forgiveness.”
She frowned. “Why did she come?”
“She’s meeting someone.”
“A boyfriend here in Jacobs County?” she asked curtly.
“No, she said it was business.” He frowned, too. “You know, she seems to know a lot about that recent murder here.”
“Why would she?”
Boone grimaced. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but it seems our uncle may have had ties to the case.”
She let out a breath. “Oh, that’s great. Now he’s not just the man who stole our mother, he’s a murderer!”
“No, not that sort of involvement,” he replied. “I think he might have had some connection to the people involved. From what she said, he was a heavy drug user.”
“Not surprising. I never liked him,” she confessed. “He was always picking on Dad, trying to compete with him in everything. It was sort of sad to me at the time because anybody could see he wasn’t the equal of our father at business or ranching or anything else.”
“Our father had some good qualities. Hitting you like that wasn’t one of them,” he added coldly, “and if I’d known about it, I’d have knocked him through a wall!”
“I know that. It was only the one time,” she said quietly, “and he’d been drinking. It was just after he and our mother met that time, when he thought she wanted to come back. It wasn’t long after she’d gone away with our uncle. He came back home all quiet and furious, and he drank like a fish for about two months. That was when he hit me. He was sorry afterward, and he promised never to do it again. But he hated me, just the same, because I looked like her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” she said with a sigh. “It sort of turned me against men, at least where marriage was concerned.”
“Except with Kilraven.”
She flushed and glared at him. “He’ll probably never speak to me again, after what happened at the party. I don’t understand why he was so angry.” She sighed. “Of course, I don’t understand why I painted a raven for him, either. It’s not one of my usual subjects. I like to do flowers. Or portraits.”
“You’re very good at portraits.”
“Thanks.”
“You could have made a name for yourself as a portrait artist, even an illustrator.”
“I never had the dedication,” she replied. “I really do love my job,” she added.
“So does Keely,” he replied with an indulgent smile. “It’s not a bad thing, working when you don’t have to.”
“You’d know,” she accused, laughing. “You work harder on the ranch than your men do. That reporter for Modern Ranching World had to learn to ride a horse just to interview you about your new green technology because he could never find you unless he went out on the ranch.”
“They’re putting me on the cover,” he muttered. “I didn’t mind doing the article—I think it helps ranching’s public image. But I don’t like the idea of seeing myself looking back at me from a magazine rack.”
“You’re very good-looking,” she said. “And it is good PR. Not that you’ll ever sell the idea of humane beef cultivation to vegetarians,” she added with a chuckle.
He shrugged. “As long as people want a nice, juicy steak at a restaurant, there’s not much chance that ranchers are going to turn to raising house cattle.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you could put a diaper on a calf and bring him inside …”
She hit him. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “And when I get upstairs, I’m going to tell Keely what you just said.”
“No!” he wailed. “I was only kidding about it. She’d actually do it!”
She laughed. “There wouldn’t be room. Bailey’s as big as a calf.”
The old German Shepherd looked up from his comfortable doggy bed by the fireplace and wagged his tail.
“See?” she asked. “He knows he’s a calf.”
He shook his head. He bent to ruffle the dog’s fur. He glanced at Winnie. “You going to be okay?”
“Sure.” She hesitated. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Being my brother. Don’t leave the jewels lying around,” she advised. “If Clark comes home and sees them, he’ll beg some of them for whatever girl he’s crazy over at the moment.”
“Good thought,” he said, grinning. “I’ll put them in the safe and drive them to town Monday and lodge them in the safe-deposit box.”
“She could have sold them and we’d never have known,” she replied quietly. “I wonder why she didn’t? She’s not driving a new car. Her clothes are nice, but not expensive.”
“There’s no telling why,” he said.
“Did she say anything about where she was going?”
He shook his head. “Just that she was meeting a friend.”
“At this hour? I wonder who she knows here?” she mused. “She used to be friends with Barbara, who runs the café. But Barbara told me years ago that she hadn’t heard a word from her.”
“It might be some newcomer,” Boone said. “Not our business, anyway.”
“I guess. Well, I’m going to bed. It’s been a very long day.”
“For you, it sure has,” he said sympathetically. “First Kilraven, now our mother.”
“Things can only get better, right?” she asked, smiling.
“I hope so. Tell Keely I’m going to make a couple of phone calls, and I’ll be up. You sleep well.”
She smiled. “You, too.”
KILRAVEN HAD JUST pulled up in the driveway of his remote rental house in Comanche Wells when he noticed a sedan sitting there. Always overly cautious, he had his.45 automatic in his hand before he opened the door of his car. But when he got out and saw who his visitor was, he put it right back in the holster.
“What the hell are you doing out here at this hour of the night?” he asked.
She smiled. “Bringing bad news, I’m afraid. I couldn’t get you on your cell phone, so I took a chance and drove down.”
He paused by the car. “What’s wrong, Rogers?” he asked, because he knew it had to be something major to bring her from San Antonio.
She didn’t correct him. Her last name had been Sinclair, but she’d taken her maiden name back after she divorced Bruce Sinclair. Now she went by the name Gail Rogers. She leaned against the car and sighed, folding her arms over her chest. “It’s Rick Marquez,” she said. “Someone blindsided him in an alley near his apartment and left him for dead.”
“Good Lord! Does his mother know?”
She nodded. “She’s at the hospital with him. Scared her to death. But he looks worse than he is. Badly bruised, and a fractured rib, but he’ll live. He’s mad as hell.” She chuckled. “Whoever hit him is going to wish they’d never heard his name.”
“At least he’ll walk away,” Kilraven said. He grimaced. “This case just keeps getting more and more interesting, doesn’t it?”
“Whoever’s behind these murders seems to feel that the body count no longer matters.”
“He’s feeling cornered and he’s desperate,” Kilraven agreed. His eyes narrowed. “You watch your back. You’re in as much danger as Marquez. At the very least, they should put you on administrative until we get some sort of lead on what’s happening.”
“I won’t sit at a desk and let everyone around me take risks,” she replied calmly. “Still …”
She held up a hand. “Give up. I’m stubborn.”
He sighed. “Okay. But be extra cautious, will you?”
“Of course. Has forensic turned up anything interesting about the DB down here?” DB referred to dead body.
“Alice Jones is handling the case. She’s got a piece of paper that they’re teasing secrets out of, but she hasn’t told me anything new. Senator Fowler’s actually cooperating, though. It shook him up when one of his female employees turned up dead. Somebody tried to make it look like suicide, but they didn’t do their homework. Had the pistol in the wrong hand.”
“I heard about that,” she said. “Sloppy. Real sloppy.”
“That’s what worries me.” He bit his lower lip. “I’m going to ask for some time off to work this case. Now that our newest Junior Senator Will Sanders has stopped putting obstacles in our path, maybe we can catch a break. With Marquez sidelined, you’re going to need some help. And I have good contacts.”
“I know.” She smiled. “We might actually solve your case. I hope so.”
“Me, too.” His face was taut with pain. “I’ve spent the last seven years waiting for something to help crack the case. Maybe this latest murder is it.”
“Well, it’s going to be slow,” she said. “We’re no closer to the identity of the man found dead in Jacobs County, or to the people who killed Senator Fowler’s employee. Now we’ve got Marquez’s attack to work on, as well.” She shook her head. “I should have gotten a job baking cakes in a restaurant.”
He gave her a look of mock surprise. “You can cook?”
She glared at him. “Yes, I can cook. On my salary who can afford to eat out?”
He laughed. “Come work for me. I have an expense account.”
“No, thanks,” she said, holding out both hands, palm up. “I’ve heard about some of your exploits.”
“Lies,” he said. “Put out by jealous colleagues.”
“Hanging out of a helicopter by one hand, firing an automatic weapon, over an ocean,” she related, emphasizing the last word.
“I did not,” he said haughtily.
She just stared at him.
“Anyway, I was not hanging on by my hand.” He hesitated. Then he grinned. “I wrapped one of my legs around a piece of cargo netting and held on that way!”
“I’m going home,” she said with a laugh.
“Keep your doors locked,” he advised firmly.
“You bet.”
She climbed in under the wheel and shut the door. Beside her, a shadowy figure waved. He waved back. He wondered who her companion was. He couldn’t see him clearly in the darkness, but he looked young. Maybe a trainee, he thought. He turned back toward his house.
3
Kilraven felt uncomfortable when he remembered how upset Winnie Sinclair had been at the Christmas party. When he got over his initial anger, he realized that she couldn’t possibly have known about his daughter’s fascination with ravens. After all, who could have told her? Only he and Jon knew. Well, his stepmother—Jon’s mother—knew. But Cammy had no contact with Winnie.
There was another thing. How had he known that Winnie had painted the picture for him? It was all secret. It was disturbing that he’d felt it so certainly, and that he’d been right. Her tears at the sight of his angry face had made the connection for him. He was sorry about his behavior. The deaths were still upsetting for him. He couldn’t find peace. In seven years, the pain hadn’t eased.
Winnie had feelings for him. In another time, another place, that would have been flattering. But he had no interest in women these days. He’d dated Gloryanne Barnes before she’d married Rodrigo Ramirez, but that had been nothing more than friendship and compassion. Winnie, though, that could be a different matter. It was why he tried not to let his attraction to her show. It was why he avoided her. If only, he thought, avoiding her had kept him from wanting to get closer to her.
He was going back to San Antonio soon. He was going to take a leave of absence and try to help solve the cold case that had haunted him for seven long years. Perhaps he might finally have peace, if the killer could be brought to justice.
It was good that Senator Fowler and his protégé, Senator Sanders, had stopped fighting them about reopening the case. It was bad that some powerful politician might be involved, even on the fringes of the crime. Their names would make it a high-profile case, and the tabloids would have a field day. He cringed at the thought of seeing the autopsy photos while he was standing in line at the supermarket, where the tabloids were displayed at the checkout counter. These days, some reporters thought nothing of the family’s right to privacy. After all, a scoop was still a scoop.
He put the case to the back of his mind, as he tried to most every day. He only had a few days left in Jacobsville. He was going to do his job and then pack up and go home. In between, he was going to try to explain to Winnie Sinclair why his attitude toward her had been so violent at the Christmas party. He didn’t want to encourage her, but he couldn’t leave with the image of her hurt expression in his mind.
WINNIE HAD JUST SPENT a harrowing half hour routing two police cars to a standoff at a convenience store. In fact, it was one of only three convenience stores in the entire county. The perpetrator, a young husband with a history of bad decisions, had gotten drunk and decided to get some quick cash to buy a pretty coat for his wife. When the clerk pulled out a shotgun, the young man had fired and hit the clerk in the chest. He’d holed up in the store with the wounded man when patrons had called the police.
Winnie had dispatched a Jacobsville police officer to the scene. Another officer had called in to say he was going to back up the first officer. It was a usual thing. The officers looked out for each other, just as the dispatchers did.
There was no hostage negotiator, as such, but Cash Grier filled the position for his department. He talked the young man out of his gun. Thank God, the boy hadn’t been drunk enough to ignore the chief and come out shooting. Cash had disarmed him and then had Winnie tell the paramedics to come on in. It was routine for paramedics to be dispatched and then to stage just outside the scene of a dangerous situation until law enforcement made sure it was safe for them to go in. It was just another example of how the emergency services looked out for each other.
THE CLERK WAS BADLY INJURED, but he would live. The young man went to the detention center to be booked and await arraignment. Winnie was happy that they were able to avert a tragedy.
She drove her little VW back to the ranch, and she felt happy. It was hard to go through the day after Kilraven’s pointed snub at the Christmas party. She was still stinging, and not only from that. Her mother’s visit had unsettled her even more.
When she got home, she found Keely and Boone waiting for her in the living room.
“There’s a carnival in town. We’re going,” Keely said, “and you’re going with us. You need a little R & R after all that excitement at work.”
“How did you know …?” Winnie exclaimed.
“Boone has a scanner,” Keely pointed out, grinning.
Boone grinned, too.
Winnie laughed, putting the coat she’d just shrugged out of back on. “Okay, I’m game. Let’s go pitch pennies and win plates.”
Boone threw up his hands. “Honey, you could buy those plates for a nickel apiece at the Dish Barn downtown!”
“It’s more fun if you win them,” Winnie said primly. “Besides, I want cotton candy and a ride on the Octopus!”
“So do I,” Keely said. “Come on, sweetheart,” she called to Boone as they went through the back door. “The cotton candy will be all gone!”
“Not to worry,” he said, locking up. “They’ll make more.”
THE CARNIVAL WAS LOUD and colorful and the music was heady. Winnie ate cotton candy and went on the Octopus with Keely, laughing as the wind whipped through their hair and the music warbled among the bright lights.
Later, ankle deep in sawdust, Winnie stood before the penny pitching booth and the vendor gave her a handful of change in exchange for her two dollar bills. She was actually throwing nickels or dimes, not pennies, but she always thought of it in terms of the smaller bits of change. Just as she contemplated the right trajectory to land a coin on a plate, she spotted Dr. Bentley Rydel standing very close to Cappie Drake. Behind them, and closing in, was Officer Kilraven, still in uniform. Winnie paused to look at him. He spoke to the couple and laughed. But then he saw Winnie over their heads and his smile faded. He turned abruptly and walked right out of the carnival. Winnie felt her heart sink to the level of the ground. Well, he’d made his opinion of her quite clear, she thought miserably. He hadn’t forgiven her for the painting. She turned back to the booth, but not with any real enthusiasm. The evening had been spoiled.
CASH GRIER CALLED Kilraven a few days later and asked for his help. Cappie Drake and her brother were in danger. Her brother had been badly beaten by Cappie’s violent ex-boyfriend, just released from jail on a battery conviction stemming from an attack on her. Now he seemed to be out for blood. Eb Scott had detailed men to watch Cappie, but Kell was going to need some protection; he was in a San Antonio hospital where he’d just undergone back surgery to remove a shifted shrapnel sliver that had paralyzed him years ago. Cash asked Kilraven to go up and keep an eye on Kell until San Antonio police could catch the perp.
Kilraven went gladly. It was a relief to get out of town, even for a couple of days. But it was soon over, and he was back in Jacobsville again, fighting his feelings for Winnie. He was still no closer to a solution for his problem. He didn’t know how he was going to deal with the discomfort he felt at leaving Winnie Sinclair behind forever. And there was still that odd coincidence with the painting. He really needed to know why she’d painted it.
In the meantime, Alice Jones had called him with some shocking news. The bit of paper in the dead man’s hand in Jacobsville had contained Kilraven’s cell phone number. Now he knew he’d been right to ask for that time off to work on his cold case. The dead man had known something about the murders and he’d been trying to contact Kilraven when he’d been killed. It was a break that might crack the case, if they could identify the victim and his contacts.
THE NEXT WEEK, WINNIE worked a shift she wasn’t scheduled for, filling in for Shirley, who was out sick. When she got off that afternoon, to her surprise, she found Kilraven waiting for her at the door.
She actually gasped out loud. His silver eyes were glittery as he stared down at her.
“Hello,” she stammered.
He didn’t reply. “Get in your car and follow me,” he said quietly.
He walked to his squad car. He was technically off duty, but still in uniform. Officers in Jacobsville drove their cars home, so that they were prepared any time they had to be called in. He got in his car and waited until Winnie fumbled her way into her VW. He drove off, and she drove after him. Glancing to one side, she noted two of the operators who were on break staring after them and grinning. Oh, boy, she thought, now there’s going to be some gossip.
Kilraven drove out of the city and down the long, winding dirt road that led to his rental house. The road meandered on past his house to join with a paved road about a mile on. His house was the only one on this little stretch. He must like privacy, Winnie thought, because this certainly wasn’t on anybody’s main route.
He pulled up at the front door, cut off the engine and got out of his car. Winnie did the same.
“I’ll make coffee,” he said after he unlocked the door and led her into the kitchen.
She looked around, curious at the utter lack of anything personal in the utilitarian surroundings. Well, except for the painting she’d done for him. It was lying on the counter, face up.
She felt uncomfortable at his lack of small talk. She put her purse on the counter near the door that led down the hall to the living room. “How’s Kell Drake?” she asked.
He turned, curious.
“We heard about it from Barbara last week,” she said, mentioning the café where everybody ate. Barbara was the adoptive mother of San Antonio homicide detective Rick Marquez. “She has Rick at home. He’s getting better, but he sure wants to find whoever beat him up,” she added grimly.
“So do we. He’s one tough bird, or he’d be dead. Somebody is really trying to cover up this case,” he added.
“Yes. Poor Rick. But what about Kell?”
“That ended well, except for his bruises. He’s going to walk again,” he said. “I guess you also heard that they caught Bartlett in the act of knocking Cappie Drake around,” he added. “It seems that Marquez and a uniformed officer had to pull Dr. Rydel off the man.” He chuckled.
“We, uh, heard that, too,” she said, amused. “It was the day before Rick was jumped by those thugs. Poor Cappie.”
“She’ll be all right. She and Rydel are getting married in the near future, I hear.”
“That’s fast work,” she commented.
He shrugged. “Some people know their minds quicker than other people do.” He finished putting the coffee on and turned to glance at her. “How do you take it?”
“Straight up,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted.
“I don’t usually have a lot of time to stand around adding things to it,” she pointed out. “I’m lucky to have time to take a sip or two before it gets cold.”
“I thought Grier gave you one of those gadgets you put a coffee cup on to keep it hot,” he said. “For Christmas.”
“I don’t have a place to put it where it wouldn’t endanger the electronics at my station,” she said. “Don’t tell him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He set out two mugs, pulled out a chair at the table and motioned her into another one. He straddled his and stared at her. “Why a raven?” he asked abruptly. “And why those colors for beadwork?”
She bit her lower lip. “I don’t know.”
He stared at her pointedly, as if he didn’t believe her.
She blushed. “I really don’t know,” she emphasized. “I didn’t even start out to paint a raven. I was going to do a landscape. The raven was on the canvas. I just painted everything else out,” she added. “That sounds nuts, I guess, but famous sculptors say that’s how they do statues, they just chisel away everything that isn’t part of the statue.”
He still didn’t speak.
“How did you even know it was me?” she asked unhappily. “The gifts were supposed to be secret. I don’t tell people that painting is my hobby. How did you know?”
He got up after a minute, walked down the hall and came back with a rolled-up piece of paper. He handed it to her and sat back down.
Her intake of breath was audible. She held the picture with hands that were a little unsteady. “Who did this?” she exclaimed.
“My daughter, Melly.”
Her eyes lifted to his. He’d never spoken of any family members, except his brother. “You don’t talk about her,” she said.
His eyes went to the picture on the table. They were dull and vacant. “She was three years old when she painted that, in pre-school,” he said quietly. “It was the last thing she ever did. That afternoon, she and her mother went to my father’s house. They were going to have supper with my father and stepmother. My father went to get gas for a trip he was making the next day. Cammy hadn’t come home from shopping yet.”
He stopped. He wasn’t sure he could say it, even now. His voice failed him.
Winnie had a premonition. Only that. “And?”
He looked older. “I was working undercover with San Antonio PD, before I became a Fed. My partner and I were just a block from the house when the call came over the radio. I recognized the address and burned rubber getting there. My partner tried to stop me, but nobody could have. There were two uniformed officers already on scene. They tried to tackle me.” He shrugged. “I was bigger than both of them. So I saw Melly, and my wife, before the crime scene investigators and the coroner got there.” He got up from the table and turned away. He was too shaken to look at her. He went to the coffeepot and turned it off, pouring coffee into two cups. He still hesitated. He didn’t want to pick up the cups until he was sure he could hold them. “The perp, whoever it was, used a shotgun on them.”
Winnie had heard officers talk about their cases occasionally. She’d heard the operators talk, too, because some of them were married to people in law enforcement. She knew what a shotgun could do to a human body. To even think of it being used on a child … She swallowed, hard, and swallowed again. Her imagination conjured up something she immediately pushed to the back of her mind.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a choked tone.
Finally, he picked up the cups and put them on the table. He straddled the chair again, calmer now. “We couldn’t find the person or persons who did it,” he said curtly. “My father went crazy. He had these feelings, like you do. He left the house to get gas. It could have waited until the next morning, but he felt he should go right then. He said later that if he’d been home, he might have been able to save them.”
“Or he might have been lying right beside them,” Winnie said bluntly.
He looked at her in a different way. “Yes,” he agreed. “That was what I thought, too. But he couldn’t live with the guilt. He started drinking and couldn’t stop. He died of a heart attack. They said the alcohol might have played a part, but I think he grieved himself to death. He loved Melly.” He stopped speaking and drank the coffee. It blistered his tongue. That helped. He hadn’t talked about it to an outsider, ever.
Her soft, dark eyes slid over his face quietly. “You think this may be linked to the body they found in the river,” she said slowly.
His dark eyebrows lifted. “I haven’t said that.”
“You’re thinking it.”
His broad chest rose and fell. “Yes. We found a small piece of paper clenched in the man’s fist. It took some work, but Alice Jones’s forensic lab was able to make out the writing. It was my cell phone number. The man was coming here to talk to me. He knew something about my daughter’s death. I’m sure of it.”
His daughter’s death. He didn’t say, his wife and daughter. She wondered why.
His big hands wrapped around the hot white mug. His eyes had an emptiness that Winnie recognized. She’d seen it in military veterans. They called it the thousand-yard stare. It was the look of men who’d seen violence, who dealt in it. They were never the same again.
“What did she look like?” Winnie asked gently.
He blinked. It wasn’t a question he’d anticipated. He smiled faintly. “Like Jon, actually, and my father,” he said, laughing. “She had jet-black hair, long, down to her waist in back, and eyes like liquid ebony. She was intelligent and sweet natured. She never met a stranger …” He stopped, looked down into the coffee cup, and forced it up to his lips to melt away the hard lump in his throat. Melly, laughing, holding her arms out to him. “I love you, Daddy! Always remember!” That picture of her, laughing, was overlaid by one of her, lifeless, a nightmare figure covered in blood …
“Dear God!” he bit off, and his head bent.
Winnie was wary of most men. She was shy and introverted, and never forward. But she got up out of her chair, pulled him toward her and drew his head to her breasts. “Honest emotion should never embarrass anyone,” she whispered against his hair. “It’s much worse to pretend that we don’t care than to admit we do.”
She felt his big body shudder. She expected him to jerk away, to push her away, to refuse comfort. He was such a steely, capable man, full of fire and spirit and courage. But he didn’t resist her. Not for a minute, anyway. His arms circled her waist and almost crushed her as he gave in, momentarily, to the need for comfort. It was something he’d never done. He’d even pushed Cammy away, years ago, when she offered it to him.
She laid her cheek against his thick, soft black hair and just stood there, holding him. But then he did pull away, abruptly, and stood up, turning away from her.
“More coffee?” he asked in a harsh tone.
She forced a smile. “Yes, please.” She moved to the table and picked up her own cup, deliberately giving him time to get back the control he’d briefly lost. “It’s gone cold.”
“Liar,” he murmured when she joined him at the coffeepot and he took the cup from her. “You’d blister your lip if you sipped it.”
She looked up at him with a grin. “I was being politically agreeable.”
“You were lying.” He put the cup on the counter and gathered her up whole against him. “What a sweetheart you are,” he ground out as his mouth suddenly ground down into hers.
The force of the kiss shocked her. He didn’t lead up to it. It was instant, feverish passion, so intense that the insistence of his mouth shocked her lips apart, giving him access to the heated sweetness within. She wasn’t a woman who incited passion. In fact, what she’d experienced of it had turned her cold. She didn’t like the arrogance, the pushiness, of most men she’d dated. But Kilraven was as honest in passion as he was otherwise. He enjoyed kissing her, and he didn’t pretend that he didn’t. His arms forced her into the hard curve of his body and he chuckled when he felt her melt against him, helpless and submissive, as he ground his mouth into hers.
Her arms went under his and around him. The utility belt was uncomfortable. She felt the butt of his automatic at her ribs. His arms were bruising. But she didn’t care. She held on for all she was worth and shivered with what must have been desire. She’d never felt it. Not until now, with the last man on earth she should allow herself to feel it for.
He felt her shy response with wonder. He’d expected that a socialite like Winnie would have had men since her early teens. The way of the world these days was experience. Virtue counted for nothing with most of the social set. But this little violet was innocent. He could feel it when she strained away from the sudden hardness of his body, when she shivered as he tried to probe her mouth.
Curious, he lifted his head and looked down into her flushed, wide-eyed face. Innocence. She couldn’t even pretend sophistication.
Gently, he eased her out of his arms. He smiled to lessen the sting of it. “You taste of green apples,” he said enigmatically.
“Apples?” She blinked, and swallowed. She could still taste him on her mouth. It had felt wonderful, being held so close to that warm strength. “I haven’t had an apple in, well, in ages,” she stammered.
“It was a figure of speech. Here. Put on your coat.” He helped her ease her arms into it. Then he handed her the cup.
“Am I leaving and taking it with me?” she asked blankly.
“No. We’re just drinking it outside.” He picked up his own cup and shepherded her out of the door, onto the long porch, down the steps and out to a picnic table that had been placed there, with its rude wooden benches, by the owner.
“We’re going to drink coffee out here?” she asked, astonished. “It’s freezing!”
“I know. Sit down.”
She did, using the cup for a hand warmer.
“It is a bit nippy,” he commented.
A sheriff’s car drove past. It beeped. Kilraven waved. “I’m leaving next week,” he said.
“Yes. You told us.”
A Jacobsville police car whizzed by, just behind the sheriff’s car. It beeped, too. Kilraven threw up his hand. Dust rose and fell in their wake, then settled.
“I had some sick leave and some vacation time left over. I can only use a little of it, of course, for this year, because it’s almost over. But I’m going to have a few weeks to do some investigating without pay.” He smiled. “With the state of the economy what it is, I don’t think they’ll mind that.”
“Probably not.” She sipped coffee. “Exactly what do you do when you aren’t impersonating a police officer?” she asked politely.
He pursed his lips and his silver eyes twinkled. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to—”
A loud horn drowned out the rest. This time, it was a fire truck. They waved. Kilraven waved back. So did Winnie.
“Have to what?” she asked him.
“Well, it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“That’s just stonewalling, Kilraven,” she pointed out. She frowned. “Don’t you have a first name?”
“Sure. It’s—”
Another loud horn drowned that out, too.
They both turned. Cash Grier pulled up beside the picnic table and let down his window on the driver’s side. “Isn’t it a little cold to be drinking coffee outside?” he asked.
Kilraven gave him a wry look. “Everybody at the EOC saw me drive off with Winnie,” he said complacently. “So far, there have been two cop cars and a fire truck. And, oh, look, there comes the Willow Creek Police Department. A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” he called loudly to the driver, who was from northern Jacobs County. He just grinned and waved and drove on.
Winnie hadn’t realized how much traffic had gone by until then. She burst out laughing. No wonder Kilraven had wanted to sit out here. He wasn’t going to have her gossiped about. It touched her.
“If I were you, I’d take her to Barbara’s Café to have this discussion,” Cash told him. “It’s much more private.”
“Private?” Kilraven exclaimed.
Cash pointed to the road. There were, in a row, two sheriffs’ cars, a state police vehicle, a fire and rescue truck, an ambulance and, of all things, a fire department ladder truck. They all tooted and waved as they went by, creating a wave of dust.
Cash Grier shook his head. “Now, that’s a shame you’ll get all dusty. Maybe you should take her back inside,” he said with an angelic expression.
“You know what you can do,” Kilraven told him. He got up and held out his hand for Winnie’s cup. “I’m putting these in the sink, and then we’re leaving.”
“Spoilsport.” Cash sighed. “Now we’ll all have to go back to work!”
“I can suggest a place to do it,” Kilraven muttered.
Cash winked at Winnie, who couldn’t stop laughing. He drove off.
Winnie got up, sighed and dug in her coat pocket for her car keys. It had been, in some ways, the most eventful hour of her life. She knew things about Kilraven that nobody else did, and she felt close to him. It was the first time in their turbulent relationship that she felt any hope for the future. Not that getting closer to him was going to be easy, she told herself. Especially not with him in San Antonio and her in Jacobsville.
He came back out, locking the door behind him. He looked around as he danced gracefully down the steps and joined her. “What, no traffic jam?” he exclaimed, nodding toward the deserted road. “Maybe they ran out of rubberneckers.”
Just as he said that, a funeral procession came by, headed by none other than the long-suffering Macreedy. He was famous for getting lost while leading processions. He didn’t blow his horn. In fact, he really did look lost. The procession went on down the road with Winnie and Kilraven staring after it.
“Don’t tell me he’s losing another funeral procession,” she wailed. “Sheriff Carson Hayes will fry him up and serve him on toast if he does it again.”
“No kidding,” Kilraven agreed. “There’s already been the threat of a lawsuit by one family.” He shook his head. “Hayes really needs to put that boy behind a desk.”
“Or take away his car keys,” she agreed.
He looked down at her with an oddly affectionate expression. “Come on. You’re getting chilled.”
He walked her back to her car, towering over her. “You’ve come a long way since that day you went wailing home because you forgot to tell me a perp was armed.”
She smiled. “I was lucky. I could have gotten you killed.”
He hesitated. “These flashes of insight, do they run in your family?”
“I don’t know much about my family,” she confessed. “My father was very remote after my mother left us.”
“Did you have any contact with your uncle?” he asked.
She gaped at him. “How do you know about him?”
He didn’t want to confess what he knew about the man. He shrugged. “Someone mentioned his name.”
“We don’t have any contact at all. We didn’t,” she corrected. “He died a month ago. Or so we were told.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her dark eyes were cold. “I’m not. He and my mother ran away together and left my father with three kids to raise. Well, two kids actually. Boone was in the military by then. I look like my mother. Dad hated that. He hated me.” She bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to say as much.
But he read that in her expression. “We all have pivotal times in our lives, when a decision leads to a different future.” He smiled. “In the sixteenth century, Henry VIII fell in love with a young girl and decided that his Catholic wife, Catherine of Aragon, was too old to give him a son anyway, so he spent years finding a way to divorce her and marry the young girl, whom he was certain could produce a male heir. In the end, he destroyed the Catholic Church in England to accomplish it. He married Ann Boleyn, a protestant who had been one of Catherine’s ladies, and from that start the Anglican Church was born. The child of that union was not a son, but Elizabeth, who became queen of England after her brother and half sister. All that, for love of a woman.” He pursed his lips and his eyes twinkled. “As it turned out, he couldn’t get a son from Ann Boleyn either, so he found a way to frame her for adultery and cut off her head. Ten days later, he married a woman who could give him a son.”
“The wretch!” she exclaimed, outraged.
“That’s why we have elected officials instead of kings with absolute power,” he told her.
She shook her head. “How do you know all that?”
He leaned down. “You mustn’t mention it, but I have a degree in history.”
“Well!”
“But I specialized in Scottish history, not English. I’m one of a handful of people who think James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, got a raw deal from history for marrying Mary, Queen of Scots. But don’t mention that out loud.”
She laughed. “Okay.”
He opened her car door for her. Before she got in, he drew a long strand of her blond hair over his big hand, studying its softness and beautiful pale color.
Her eyes slid over his face. “Your brother wears his hair long, in a ponytail. You keep yours short.”
“Is that a question?”
She nodded.
“Jon is particularly heavy on the Native American side of his ancestry.”
“And you aren’t?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, Winnie,” he said quietly, making her name sound foreign and sweet and different. “Maybe I’m hiding from it.”
“Not you,” she said with conviction. “I can’t see you hiding from anything.”
That soft pride in her tone made him feel taller. He let go of her hair. “Drive carefully,” he said.
“I will. See you.”
He didn’t say anything else. But he did nod.
With her heart flying up in her throat, she got in and drove away. It wasn’t until she got home that she realized, she still didn’t know his first name.
4
Winnie was back at work the next morning almost walking on air. Kilraven had kissed her. Not only that, he seemed to really like her. Maybe San Antonio wasn’t so far away. He might visit. He might take her out on a date. Anything was possible.
She put her purse in her locker and went to her station. It was in the shape of a semicircle, and contained a bank of computers. Directly in front of her was a keyboard; behind it was a computer screen. This was the radio from which she could contact any police, fire or EMS department, although her job was police dispatch. There were separate stations for fire, police and EMS. Fire had one dispatcher, EMS had two. She, along with Shirley at a separate console, handled law enforcement traffic on her shift for all of Jacobs County. Beside her was a screen for the NCIC, the National Crime Information Center. Behind the computer screen, on a shelf, sat three other computer screens. One, an incident screen, noted the location of the units and their current status. The middle was CAD, or computer aided dispatch, which featured a form into which information such as activity code and location were placed; typing in the location brought up such data as prior calls at the residence, the nearest fire hydrant in case of fire, the name and address of a key holder and even a box to fax the incident to the police department. It also had screens for names and numbers of law enforcement personnel, including cell phone and pager numbers. There was a mobile data terminal from which dispatch could send messages to law enforcement on their laptops in their cars. The third computer screen was the phone itself, the heart and soul of the operation, through which desperation and fear and panic were heard daily and gently handled.
This information came through two call takers. Their job was to take the calls as they came in, put them into the computer and send them to the appropriate desk: fire, police or EMS. Once the location and situation were input, the computer decided which was the appropriate agency or agencies to be dispatched. For a domestic incident with injuries, police were sent first to secure the scene, and an ambulance would stage in the area until it was deemed safe for the EMS personnel to enter the house to assist the injured. Often the perpetrator was still inside and dangerous to anyone who attempted to help the victim. More police officers died responding to domestic disputes than almost any other job-related duty.
Winnie had just dispatched a police officer to the scene of a motor vehicle accident, along with fire and rescue, and was waiting for further information.
In between the calls, Shirley leaned over while the supervisor was talking to a visitor. “Did you hear about the break in the murder case?”
“What break?”
“They found Kilraven’s cell phone number clenched in the victim’s hand.”
“Oh, that. Yes, Kilraven told me.”
Shirley’s eyes twinkled. “Did he now? Might one ask what else he told you, all alone at his house?”
“How do you know we went to his house?” Winnie asked, blushing.
“A few people told us. There was a sheriff’s deputy, Chief Grier, a fireman, a funeral director …”
Winnie laughed. “I should have known.”
“They did all just mention that you and Kilraven were drinking coffee at a picnic table, outside in the freezing cold,” Shirley added.
“Well, Kilraven felt that we shouldn’t start gossip.”
“As if.” Shirley chuckled. “What were you talking about?” she added slyly.
“The murder case,” Winnie said with a grin. “No, really, we were,” she added when she saw her coworker’s expression. “You remember Senator Fowler’s kitchen help died mysteriously after she gave some information to Alice Jones, the coroner’s investigator from San Antonio, about the victim? Now there’s gossip the murder might be linked to other murders in San Antonio.” It was safe to tell her that. No way was she going to add that Kilraven’s family might be involved.
“Wow,” Shirley exclaimed softly.
“Heads up,” Winnie whispered, grinning and turned away before Maddie Sims came toward them. The older woman never jumped on them about talking because they only passed remarks back and forth during lulls in the operations, but she did like them to pay attention on the job. She would know what they did anyway because everything was recorded when they were working. Maddie would be diplomatic about it, though.
Winnie smiled as Maddie passed. A message from the police officer responding to the wreck was just coming in, requesting a want and warrants on a car tag. She turned back to her console and began typing in the numbers.
IT WAS A BUSY NIGHT. There was an attempted suicide, which, fortunately, they were able to get help dispatched in time. There were assorted sick calls, one kitchen fire, several car versus deer reports, two domestic calls, a large animal in the road and three drunk driver reports, only one of which resulted in an arrest. Often a drunk driver was reported on the highway, but no good description of the vehicle or direction of travel was given and it was a big county. Occasionally, an observant citizen could provide a description and tag number, but not always. Unless a squad car was actually in the area of the report, it was difficult sometimes to pursue. You couldn’t pull an officer off the investigation of an accident or a burglary or a robbery, she mused, to go roaming the county looking for an inebriated driver, no matter how much the officers would like to catch one.
At break, she and Shirley worried about the assault on Rick Marquez.
“I hope he’s not going to be attacked again, when he goes back to work. Somebody wants this case covered up pretty badly,” Shirley said.
“Yes,” Winnie agreed, “and it looks like this is only the tip of the iceberg. We still have that mangled murder victim in our county. Senator Fowler’s hired help told Alice Jones something about him and the poor woman was murdered in a way that made it look like suicide. Now there’s an attempt on Rick, who’s been helping investigate it.”
“He’s lucky he has such a hard head,” Shirley said.
“And that his partner went searching for him when he didn’t turn up to look at some paperwork she’d just found. Yes, I heard about that from Keely,” Winnie said. “Sheriff Hayes,” she added with a grin, “is Boone’s best friend, so they know more than most people about what’s going on. Well, except for us,” she added wryly. “We know everything.”
“Almost everything, anyway. You know, we used to live in such a peaceful county.” Shirley sighed. “Then Keely lost her mother to a killer who was friends with her father. Now we get a murder victim dead in our river and his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. This is a dangerous place to live.”
“Every place is dangerous, even small towns,” she replied with a smile. “It’s the times we live in.”
“I guess so.”
They had homemade soup with cornbread, courtesy of one of the other dispatchers. It was nice to have something besides takeout, which got old very quickly on ten-hour shifts. The operators only worked four days a week, not necessarily in sequence, but they were stress-filled. All of them loved the job, or they wouldn’t be doing it. Saving lives, which they did on a daily basis, was a blessing in itself. But days off were good so that they had a chance to recover just a little bit from the nerve-racking series of desperate situations in which they assisted the appropriate authorities. Winnie had never loved a job so much. She smiled at Shirley, and thought what a nice bunch of people she worked with.
KILRAVEN WAS PUMPING his brother for information. It was, as usual, hard going. Jon was even more tight-lipped than Kilraven.
“It’s an ongoing murder investigation,” he insisted, throwing up his hands. “I can’t discuss it with you.”
Kilraven, comfortably seated in the one good chair in Jon’s office, just glared at him with angry silver eyes. “This is your niece and your sister-in-law we’re talking about,” he said icily. “I can help. Let me help.”
Jon perched on the edge of his desk. He was immaculate, from his polished black shoes to the long, elegant fingers that were always manicured. His black hair was caught in a ponytail that hung to his waist. His face grew solemn. “All right. But if Garon Grier asks me, I’m telling him that you stood on me in order to get this information.”
Kilraven grinned. “Should I stand on you, just for appearances?” He indicated his big booted feet. “I’m game.”
“I’d like to see you stand on me,” Jon shot back.
“Come on, come on, talk.”
Jon sighed. “I don’t have much, but I’ll share.” He punched the intercom. “Ms. Perry, could you bring me the Fowler file, please.”
There was a pause. A light, airy, sarcastic feminine voice answered. “Hard copy is kept in your filing cabinet, Mr. Blackhawk,” she said sweetly. “Lost our password again, have we?”
Jon’s face tautened. “What I am losing, rapidly, is my patience. For your information, Garon took out the files to show Agent Simmons. They’re in your filing cabinet.”
There was a dead silence. A filing cabinet was opened and then closed, and impatient high-heels came marching into Jon’s office with a pleasant face, blue eyes and jet-black hair, cut short.
She put a file on the desk. “We do have electronic copies of this, password-protected, if your password ever presents itself again,” she said sweetly.
Jon glared at her. “You were an hour late for work two mornings this week, Ms. Perry,” he said, his tone as bland as her own. “So far, I haven’t reported it to Garon.”
She stiffened. Her blue eyes had blue shadows under them. She didn’t shoot back an excuse.
“Perhaps it would help your present attitude if you knew that Ms. Smith has an extensive rap sheet, of which my mother is unaware. With your, shall we say, proclivities for sneaking in the back door of protected files, I should think you could dig out the rest of the information all by yourself. If,” he added with dripping sarcasm, “you can manage to keep your present job long enough to look for it.”
She reddened. Her blue eyes shot ice daggers at him, but her voice was even when she spoke. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything further, Mr. Blackhawk.” She left, without even looking at Kilraven. Her back was as stiff as her expression.
Jon got up and closed the door behind her with a little jerk. His own eyes, liquid black, were smoldering. “Ever since my mother sent Jill Smith in here to vamp me, it’s been like this.”
“You did have Ms. Smith arrested for harassment,” Kilraven pointed out with barely suppressed amusement. “And taken out in handcuffs, if I recall?”
Jon shrugged. “A man isn’t safe alone in his own office these days.”
“You’re safe from that particular woman, I’ll bet,” Kilraven replied, nodding toward the direction Joceline Perry had taken.
“Most men are.”
“Care to say why?”
Jon went back to the desk and picked up the file folder. “She has a little boy, about three years old. His father was killed overseas in the military. She can freeze a man from half a block away.”
“Not necessary in your case, bro, you’re already frozen.”
Jon glared at him. “Don’t call me that disgusting nickname, if you please.”
“Excuse me, your grace.”
Jon glared even more.
Kilraven sobered. “All right, I’ll try to act with more decorum. Is Mom still speaking to you?”
“Only to tell me how poor Ms. Smith is suffering from my rejection. I’ve tried to tell her that her newest candidate for my affections is one step short of a call girl, but she won’t listen. Ms. Smith’s mother is her best friend, so naturally the daughter is pure as the driven snow.”
“She might not be, but you certainly are.” His brother grinned.
Jon’s black eyes narrowed. “And you certainly would be, if you hadn’t been conned into marrying Monica.”
Kilraven’s amused expression fell. “I guess so. I never planned to get married in the first place, but she knew her way around men. Funny, I never even wondered why, until we were already married and she was pregnant with Melly. She had boyfriends that actually showed up at the house from time to time to see her.”
“Which didn’t go over well.”
“I was young and jealous. She was experienced, but I wasn’t.” He gave his brother a quiet appraisal. “You could still charm unicorns. Don’t you think you’re old enough to consider getting married?”
“No woman could live with me. I’m married to my job. And when I’m not at work, I’m married to the ranch.”
“I miss it from time to time,” Kilraven mused. “I guess I’ll forget how to ride a horse eventually.”
“That’s a joke. You’ve got more trophies than I have.”
They were both expert horsemen. In their youth, they participated in rodeo and stood undefeated at bulldogging in southern Oklahoma until they retired from the ring.
“But all this is beside the point,” Jon said. He handed the file to Kilraven. “You’ll have to read it here and you can’t have photocopies.”
“Fair enough.” He started reading. Jon took a phone call. By then, Kilraven had enough information to form an uncomfortable hypothesis.
“Senator Fowler’s protégé, Senator Will Sanders, has a brother, Hank, one of the more dangerous career criminals and a man who has his hands in every illegal operation in the city,” Kilraven murmured as he read. “Two attempted murder charges, both dropped for lack of evidence to convict, and at least one accusation of rape.”
“For which he drew a suspended sentence when the lady recanted.” Jon’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “In fact, his brother, Senator Sanders himself, has a statutory rape charge that was dropped for lack of evidence. He has a taste for virgins, and since a good many women are experienced even by their mid-teens, he’s looking for them younger and younger.”
“Pervert,” Kilraven muttered. “The victim in this case was fourteen. Fourteen years old! He gave her an illegal substance and had her in a guest bedroom in his own house. He even filmed it for the amusement of his friends.” He frowned. “There was a dead teenage girl seven years ago, remember? It was just before Melly …” He cleared his throat. “The girl was found in a similar condition to our murder victim in Jacobsville. I’ve always felt there was a connection, but we were never able to put our finger on one.”
“Just coincidence, probably,” Jon agreed. “They do happen.”
Kilraven tossed the file back onto Jon’s desk with utter disdain. “He filmed himself assaulting a fourteen-year-old. And they couldn’t prove it? There was film!”
“It’s not called film anymore, it’s digital imaging, but I get your meaning. No, they couldn’t prove it. The camcorder was erased in the police property room, by persons unknown, conveniently before arraignment. We can’t accuse anybody, but Senator Sanders has a longtime employee who did hard time for a violent crime. He’s violently protective of both brothers, and he has a cousin who works for SAPD.”
“How convenient. Can we put some pressure on the cop?” Kilraven asked.
Jon gave him a wry look. “We’ve got enough problems. We’re having him watched by internal affairs. That will have to do. Now, to get back to the case involving the living fourteen-year-old, the assistant D.A. in the case was hopping up and down and using language that almost got him arrested in his own office when they told him. That was just after the girl’s parents called and said they were refusing to let her testify.”
“They didn’t want the creep prosecuted?” Kilraven exclaimed.
Jon’s expression was eloquent. “The week after that, the girl’s father was driving a new Jaguar, one of the high ticket sports models, and he paid off all his gambling debts at once.”
Kilraven was quiet. “Those cars run to six figures. The file says the father worked as a midlevel accountant.”
“Exactly.”
“If Melly had been fourteen, and someone had done that to her, I’d have moved heaven and earth to put the man away for life. If I didn’t break his neck first.”
“Same here. Money does talk, in some cases.”
“In a lot of them.” Kilraven was thinking. “The senator’s wife started divorce proceedings a few years ago, and then stopped them and started drinking. Her husband still has lovers and she can’t seem to get away from him. They have a beach house in Nassau where she spends a lot of time.”
“And the senator’s family has a ranch one property over from our own near Lawton,” Jon replied, naming the Oklahoma town where both boys were born.
“Maybe the wife knows something about her brother-in-law that she’d be willing to share,” Kilraven thought out loud.
“Don’t go harassing the senator or his wife,” Jon said firmly. “We’ve finally got something that might give us a clue to our own cold case. Garon Grier has someone working undercover on this, as well. If you put somebody’s back up, we could lose all the ground we’ve gained. Not to mention that we could be facing some real heat from higher up.”
“I’m on leave of absence,” Kilraven pointed out.
“Yes, but you still have a boss who won’t like your involvement in a case that isn’t connected to your present employment.”
“I have a great boss. He’d understand.”
“Sure he would, but he’d still fire you.”
“I’ve been fired before.”
“You’ve been reprimanded, too. Don’t pile up too many demerits, boy scout,” Jon teased. “You’ll get yourself kicked out of any federal work.”
Kilraven sighed and stuck his big hands in his pockets. “I guess I could be a small-town cop in Jacobsville for life if I had to.”
“You’d never manage it. Cash Grier told Marquez that he’s already one step closer to nailing you in a barrel and sending you down the Rio Grande.”
“He’d have to get me in the barrel first and drive me all the way to the Rio Grande. By the time he got there, I’d have extricated myself from the barrel, appropriated his truck and had local authorities arrest him for kidnapping.”
Jon didn’t say anything. He just smiled. He knew his brother well enough to believe it.
“That said, he’s a good man to work for. He goes to the wall for his officers.”
“So does Garon Grier, here.”
Kilraven nodded. “They’re both good men.” He frowned. “Don’t they have two other brothers?”
“Yes. One of them is also in law enforcement.”
“Like the Earp brothers,” Kilraven mused.
“There were five of them. There are only four Grier brothers.” He got up. “We’re still running down leads on the murder victim,” he said. “I’ve got Ms. Perry checking parole files to see if we can find a match there. Maybe the victim was just out of prison and between jobs when he was wasted.”
“If he has a rap sheet, he’ll be easier to identify,” Kilraven agreed. “And if they cheek-swabbed him, which I imagine they did, Alice Jones can use all that high-tech stuff at the forensic lab to discover his identity.”
Jon nodded. “DNA is a blessing in cases like this where the DB is unidentifiable under conventional means.”
“Makes our job easier,” was the bland reply, “but good police work still largely consists of wearing out shoe leather. Speaking of which, I want to have a talk with Marquez. He might have gotten a look at his attackers.”
“We’ve already asked. He didn’t.”
“I want to talk to him anyway.”
“He isn’t back on the job yet. He’ll be at his mother’s house in Jacobsville.”
“Thanks,” Kilraven said drily. “I did know that, living in Jacobsville myself.”
Jon’s black eyes twinkled. “I understand that you had a visitor recently at your house. A blond one.”
“Good Lord. You heard that all the way up here?”
“You were seen by a substantial number of uniformed people.”
“Who drove by my house just to spy on me,” Kilraven said with mock disgust. “What is the world coming to when a man can’t have a cup of coffee with a guest?”
“A cup of coffee at a picnic table, outdoors, in freezing temperatures. Something wrong with the sofa in your living room?”
“If people can’t see you, they guess what’s going on and they’re usually wrong. I didn’t want Winnie subjected to gossip,” he added quietly. “She’s an innocent.”
Jon’s eyebrows went up over twinkling eyes. “And how would you have found that out?”
Kilraven glowered at him. “In the usual way.”
Jon pursed his lips. “Imagine that!”
“It’s not serious,” came the short reply. “She’s a friend. Sort of. But I asked her to the house because I wanted to know why she painted that picture that was a dead-ringer for Melly’s raven drawing.”
Jon sobered at once. He remembered his brother’s visit that night with the painting. “And?”
“She said she started to paint a landscape,” Kilraven replied with a puzzled expression. “She didn’t know why she painted a raven, or those colors on the beads. She didn’t know how I knew it was her, either. I’ve never even told her that our ranch is called ‘Raven’s Pride.’”
“We have those flashes of insight because it runs in our family,” Jon reminded him. “Our father had a cousin who was notorious for his very accurate visions of the future.”
Kilraven nodded. “I wonder where Winnie’s gift comes from. She doesn’t know. Funny,” he added, “but Gail Rogers, the detective who’s helping me with our case, has those premonitions. She gets some gossip when she pegs a suspect that nobody else connected with a case.”
The intercom buzzed. Jon answered it.
“Agent Wilkes is on his way in with Agent Salton, and you’re all due for a meeting in ASAC Grier’s office in ten minutes,” Joceline said in a voice dripping with sugar. “Would you like coffee and donuts?”
Jon looked surprised, as he should have. Ms. Perry never volunteered to fetch snack food. “That would be nice.”
“There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts shop around the corner,” she reminded him. “If I were you, I’d hurry.”
“I’d hurry?” he repeated.
“Yes, because my job description requires me to type and file and answer phones. Not be a caterer,” she added, still sugary. She hung up.
“One day, so help me, she’ll drive me to drink and you’ll have to bail me out of some jail where I’ll be surrounded by howling mad drug users,” Jon gritted.
Kilraven patted him on the shoulder. “Now, now, don’t let your blood pressure override your good sense.”
“If I had good sense, I’d ask for reassignment to another field office, preferably in the Yukon Territory!” he said loud enough for Ms. Perry to hear him as he opened his office door.
“Oooh, polar bears live there,” she said merrily. “And they eat people, don’t they?”
“You wish, Ms. Perry,” he shot back.
“Temper, temper,” she chided.
Jon was almost vibrating, he was so angry. Kilraven smothered laughter.
“I’ll call you,” he told his brother. “And thanks for the information.”
“Just don’t go off half-cocked and get in trouble with it,” Jon said firmly.
“You know me,” Kilraven said in mock astonishment. “I never do anything rash!”
Before Jon could reply, Kilraven walked out the door.
RICK MARQUEZ STILL had his arm in a sling and he was like a man standing on a fire ant hill. “They won’t let me come back to work yet,” he complained to Kilraven. “I can shoot with one hand!”
“You haven’t had to shoot anybody in years,” Kilraven reminded him.
“Well, it’s the point of the thing. I could sit at a desk and answer phones, but oh, no, I have to be at 100 percent before they’ll certify me fit for duty!”
“You can use the free time.”
“Yeah? For what? Watering Mom’s flowers?”
Kilraven was studying the dead bushes at the front porch. “They look dead to me.”
“Not those ones. These ones.” He let Kilraven into the living room, where huge potted plants almost covered every wall.
Kilraven’s eyebrows lifted. “She grows bananas and coffee in the house?” he exclaimed.
“Now how do you recognize coffee plants?” Marquez asked with evident suspicion. “Most people who come in here have to ask what they are.”
“Anybody could recognize a banana plant.”
“Yes, but not a coffee plant.” Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Been around coffee plants somewhere they don’t grow in pots?”
Kilraven grinned. “Let’s just say, I’m not a stranger to them, and leave it at that.”
Rick was thinking that coffee grew in some of the most dangerous places on earth. Kilraven had the look of a man who was familiar with them.
“I know that expression,” Kilraven said blandly, “but I’ve said all I’m going to.”
“I know when I’m licked. Coffee?”
“I’d love some.” He gave Rick a wry glance. “Going to pick the beans fresh?”
Rick gave the red berries a curious look. “I do have a grinder somewhere.”
“Yes, but you have to dry coffee beans and roast them before you can use them.”
“All right, now you’re really making me curious,” Rick told him.
Kilraven didn’t say a word. He just kept walking.
They went into the kitchen where Rick made coffee and Kilraven fetched cups. They drank it at Barbara’s kitchen table, covered by a red checkered cloth with matching curtains at the windows. The room was bright and airy and pretty, like Barbara herself.
“Your mother has good taste,” Kilraven commented. “And she’s a great cook.”
Rick smiled. “Not a bad mother, either,” he chuckled. “I’d probably be sitting in a cell somewhere if she hadn’t adopted me. I was a tough kid.”
“So was I,” Kilraven recalled. “Jon and I kept our parents busy when we were boys. Once, we got drunk at a party, started a brawl and ended up in a holding cell.”
“What did your parents do?”
“My stepmother was all for bailing us out. Our father, however, was an FBI agent,” he added quietly. “He told her that rushing to our defense might make us think we could get away with anything and we might end up in more serious straits. So he left us there for several days and let us sweat it.”
“Ouch,” Rick said, wincing.
“We were a lot less inclined to make trouble after that and I only recall getting drunk and going on a bender once in my adult life.” That had been after he found his wife and child dead, but he didn’t elaborate. “Of course, we were really mad at Dad. But now, looking back at it, I’m sure he did the right thing.”
“Life teaches hard lessons,” Rick agreed.
Kilraven nodded. “And one of those lessons is that we don’t go alone to a meeting with a potential informer. Ever.”
Rick flushed. “First time it ever came down like that,” he said, defending himself.
“There’s always a first time. When I was just a kid, during my first month with San Antonio P.D., one of the detectives went to a covert meeting with a crime boss and ended up in the morgue. He was a friend of my father’s.”
“It does happen. But if we don’t take chances from time to time, we don’t get clues.”
“True enough.”
“Not that I mind the company—I’m going stir crazy down here—but why are you here?”
Kilraven glanced down at the coffee cup. “Two reasons. First, I want to know if you got a look at your attackers.”
“They blindsided me,” Rick said with disgust. “I don’t even know if it was one guy or two. I woke up in the hospital.” He raised his eyebrows. “Second reason?”
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