TRACE EVIDENCE

by Carla Cassidy

  Heat. It was what he'd felt every time his gaze had met hers the night before. Heat—it was what had prompted him to issue a dinner invitation and what had led to that kiss that had shaken him to his very core.

  The kiss had kept him up half the night. Even though it had been brief, nearly over even as it had begun, it had stirred his senses into overload.

  In that brief mouth-to-mouth contact with her he'd wanted to tangle his hands in the length of her hair, lay her down on the plush throw rug beneath their feet and drag his mouth over every inch of her body.

  In that split second of tasting her lips his blood had pumped rich and hot throughout his body. He couldn't ever remember such an instantaneous, physical reaction to a simple kiss before.

  Even now as he thought of that tiny piece of yellow silk he'd seen on her bed, the heat from the outside seemed to crawl inside him. Yes, she would make the perfect distraction … at least for a little while.

  "Is this what we pay our tax dollars for … to let our law enforcement officers sit and daydream out the window?"

  The deep, familiar voice brought a smile to Clay's mouth as he turned to see the slightly stout, dapper gentleman standing in the doorway.

  "Jacob, what brings you to the lab? Did I forget to make a mortgage payment?" He gestured to the chair across from his desk.

  "Ah, I never have to worry about the James family making their payments on time." Jacob eased into the chair and patted the top his head, as if to assure himself that every one of his short gray hairs were in place. "What I am worried about is you."

  "Me?" Clay looked at him in surprise.

  "My sources tell me you're working far too many hours."

  "I am," Clay agreed. "But, until we find Mom and we've got the person who is stabbing men and leaving them naked in the street behind bars, I'm probably going to be working too many hours."

  "I've missed you dropping in for coffee."

  Affection for the older man Welled up in Clay. Jacob Kincaid, the only banker and the wealthiest man in town, had been a close friend of his parents, but he and Clay had always enjoyed a bond of friendship.

  "I thought about it the other day, that it had been too long since I'd dropped in to visit with you, but then I got busy with things."

  "I stopped by to see your dad earlier this morning," Jacob said. "He seems to be having a difficult time of it."

  "Uncle Sammy isn't much of a substitute for Mom."

  "Your uncle Sammy isn't a very good substitute for a man," Jacob said, then grimaced. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

  "No need to apologize for speaking the truth." Clay leaned back in his chair and thought about his uncle Sammy. Sammy James was Clay's father Thomas's baby brother.

  Sammy's past had been checkered, although he'd been a favorite relative of the James siblings. Throughout their childhood, Sammy had flown in and out of Cherokee Corners like a turbulent summer storm. He'd changed addresses like other people changed clothes. His family never knew for sure where he'd been before a visit or where he was headed when he left. When he was around there was always excitement and laughter.

  But more than once, Clay had heard Sammy and his dad fighting. Thomas had often told his brother to grow up, take responsibility for his life, to stop being a leech.

  Still, he was glad that Sammy had come to help take care of Clay's father, leaving Clay and his sisters to spend most of their time and attention on trying to find their mother and the person who was responsible for the crime.

  "Anything new?" Jacob asked.

  Clay knew Jacob was asking about his parents' case. Nobody except Clay, his sisters, and Glen knew about the decorative rock found at the scenes, and nobody else knew about the strong tie to the Frazier case in Sycamore Heights and a third case in Sequoia Falls.

  Although Clay trusted Jacob, he knew the more people who knew about the elements of the case, the more difficult it might become to catch a culprit. "No, nothing knew," he replied.

  "Do you think it would help if I upped the reward money?"

  "No, I appreciate the offer, but I don't think it would help. In fact, it would probably simply complicate things. For the first week or two after you put up the reward, we got nothing but false leads and crank calls, people sniffing after the money with nothing to give us. Upping the reward will just result in another flurry of useless phone calls."

  Jacob nodded, then sighed. "I just feel so helpless. Even your father won't let me do anything to help him."

  "He's a proud man. All he wants is Mom back home, and unless you can accomplish that, there's nothing you can do to help him."

  "What about you?" Jacob leaned forward, his pale blue eyes holding warm concern. The scent of expensive cologne wafted from him. "What can I do to help you?"

  Clay laughed, the sound a grim bark that had nothing to do with humor. "You can find my mother, catch the serial killer and find out who's decided to terrorize our local artist."

  One of Jacob's gray eyebrows lifted slightly. "Tamara Greystone?"

  Clay nodded, surprised that even the sound of her name pulled forth the memory of the sweet taste of her lips. "Somebody trashed her classroom at the school, then last night a dead, mutilated deer was left on her front porch."

  "Kids?"

  "Probably. We're checking it all out now."

  "Beautiful young woman," Jacob observed. "And quite talented. I own several of her early pieces. At the time I bought them I knew she'd be going places in the art world."

  Clay smiled wryly. "You own several pieces of everyone's work."

  Jacob smiled, lifting the jowls that had begun to form in recent years. "That reminds me, I just acquired a new bronze that you must come and see. It's absolutely stunning and is a beautiful addition to my collection."

  "You're obsessed, Jacob," Clay said affectionately. "If you happen to pass away at home, it will take us days to find your body in that mansion of yours amid all of your collections."

  "On that cheerful note, I think I'll take my leave." Jacob stood and Clay did as well. "Let me know if there's anything I can do, Clay," Jacob said as they reached the door to the lab that led into the police station proper.

  "Just keep visiting Dad. He needs his friends' support right now."

  "That goes without saying," Jacob agreed. The two men said their goodbyes then Clay returned to his desk, but instead of getting back to work, he stared out the window once again.

  Anything new, Jacob had asked. How Clay wished they had a substantial lead to follow in the case of his mother's disappearance. The rock that he'd found might be important, or it might lead to nothing. The fingerprints in the house had all been identified as family and friends.

  Trace evidence was still at the lab in Oklahoma City, a bigger lab with better equipment than what Clay possessed here. He was hoping something would be found there to point a finger to a likely suspect, but hope was getting more difficult to sustain with each passing day.

  A distraction. In truth, that was probably the last thing he needed in his life at the moment. What he needed was more energy, more focus, more minutes in the day to find his mother. But she was such a fine distraction, a little voice whispered inside his head.

  His gaze went from the window to the phone. Call and cancel. That was the smart thing to do. The last thing he needed was to go out to dinner with a woman he had nothing in common with, a woman who physically stirred him half-mindless.

  The last woman he needed to get involved with in any way was Tamara Greystone, who taught Native legends he didn't believe in and adhered to old traditions he'd long ago eschewed.

  Even knowing the smartest thing to do was cancel the dinner date, his hand didn't reach for the phone. It was already after two, and it would be rude to cancel at this late time.

  No, he'd go ahead and take her to dinner. They had absolutely nothing in common and their only connection was the crime that had taken place in her classroom.

  They'd probably suffer unendurable lengths o
f uncomfortable silences, followed by severe heartburn and both would come away from the meal knowing the idea of them sharing personal time together was nothing more than a bad idea.

  * * *

  It was ridiculous that it took her so much time to get dressed for a date she wasn't sure she wanted to keep. For the fourth time in as many minutes she pulled an outfit from her closet, then threw it on the bed.

  It was five-thirty. She'd already had a long, luxurious bubble bath, washed and brushed her hair, put on a touch of makeup, but at this rate she'd be trying to pick a dress to wear as their dinner reservations were given to somebody else.

  The problem was she wasn't sure if she wanted to dress to please herself or dress to please him. Even though she knew the dinner invitation had been spontaneous, prompted by who knew what, she still intended to have a nice evening.

  She finally decided to dress to please herself. She'd spent enough time trying to please Max that now the idea of dressing for a man, being something other than what she was, left a bad taste in her mouth.

  The tear dress she finally chose to wear was turquoise calico with an appliqué pattern of coral diamonds around the yoke and the bottom of the long skirt. Coral buttons adorned the dress from the neckline to the hem. She added coral earrings and sandals and pronounced herself ready.

  As she stood in her living room, waiting for Clay to arrive, she realized that by choosing to wear a traditional Cherokee tear dress she was instantly placing a barrier between her and Clay.

  She knew from spending time with Rita that, for some unknown reason, Clay had turned his back on the Cherokee ways and his Native American blood. He probably wouldn't be pleased to see her dressed in the traditional Cherokee clothing. But this was who she was and besides, it was only a meal they were sharing. She knew better than to expect or anticipate anything more.

  At precisely six o'clock he pulled in front of her cottage. Instead of driving the white van she'd seen him in before, he drove a shiny dark blue two-door sports car.

  She watched as he unfolded from the driver door, surprised to feel her heart race just a little bit faster. He was dressed in a pair of navy dress slacks and a short-sleeved pale blue shirt.

  Even though she was peeking through the curtain at the window and watching him approach, she could tell that despite the civility of the dress clothing, there was a barely suppressed energy, a simmering sensuality that she recognized as both evocative and dangerous.

  She moved away from the window as he knocked, a rapid staccato that resounded in the pit of her stomach. She had a feeling this was a bad idea … a very bad idea. She grabbed her purse, then opened the door to greet him.

  His dark brows rose in surprise. "I don't think I've ever had a woman be ready when I've arrived on time to pick them up."

  "You said six. I assumed you meant six," she replied as she stepped out on the porch and pulled her door closed behind her.

  "I made reservations for six-thirty at Vitello's. I hope you like Italian," he said.

  "Love it," she replied. He opened the passenger door and she slid into the luxurious leather interior. As he walked around the front of the car to the driver door, she tried not to watch him.

  The inside of the car smelled good, an aromatic blend of rich leather and Clay's clean scent. As he opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel she steeled herself against any physical reaction she might have to his nearness.

  He seemed disinclined to speak as he started the engine and pulled away from her cottage. Instead he punched a button on the console and the air filled with the sounds of a light rock radio station.

  He was pulled tight into himself. It was obvious in the way his hands clenched the steering wheel, in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his gaze remained focused on the road ahead.

  "You know, we didn't have to do this," she said softly.

  "Do what?"

  "Do this. Do dinner together."

  He turned and eyed her curiously. "Why, you don't want to?"

  She smiled. "It just looks like you'd rather be anywhere than here at the moment."

  His shoulders relaxed, as did his grip on the steering wheel. He reached out and lowered the volume on the radio. "Sorry, I didn't mean to give you that impression. I guess I've been working so hard for so long, I've forgotten about the civil pleasantries of socializing."

  "Now, there's a real crime," she said.

  "Maybe, although most of the time I find my work more satisfying than any socializing I do."

  "Then maybe you've been socializing with the wrong people."

  Again he flashed her a glance and this time his lips were curved upward in a devastating smile. "Maybe you're right. Cops and criminals aren't usually overly adept at small talk."

  "Well, I just wanted to let you know that if you'd rather not do this, you can take me back home. I don't want you to be where you don't want to be."

  He looked back at the road, his expression once again inscrutable. "I'm fine with where I am at the moment."

  She settled back in the seat and looked out the window.

  Cherokee Corners had almost a dozen drive-through eateries, four cafés and two more upscale restaurants. Vitello's was one of the two. Located on the north side of town, it was housed in a single story bleached brick building with a neon sign across the top.

  "Ever eaten here before?" he asked as he pulled into an empty parking space.

  "No. Most of the time when I grab a bite out it's at one of the cafés." She didn't want to tell him that she hadn't been out on a date since her return to Cherokee Corners from New York nearly two years earlier.

  "I haven't eaten here before, either. Hopefully the food is good. I'm hungry, what about you?"

  "Starving," she agreed.

  Together they got out of the car and walked toward the doors to the restaurant. She was intensely aware of his hand at the small of her back as they entered the dim interior and walked to where the hostess stood.

  Although she knew it was impossible, she could have sworn she could feel the heat of his hand against her bare skin. He held his hand there until they were led to their table, only then did he break the physical contact.

  Their table was situated in a corner of the room, providing far more intimacy than they required. A rich red tablecloth covered the small table and a candle flickered its romantic light between the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table.

  "If the food is as bad as the cheesy music they're playing, we're in trouble," Clay said when they were settled in with menus before them.

  Tamara laughed and opened her menu. The "cheesy music" was an Italian instrumental, the kind that seemed indigenous to Italian restaurants all over the United States.

  "I don't know how good the food is, but if the crowd is any indication, it must be pretty good," she said.

  "It's been my experience that most weekend nights nobody stays home in this town," he observed and closed his menu.

  "There isn't a whole lot to do other than eat out in this town."

  "Quite a different pace than New York. It must have taken some adjustment for you to return to such a small town after the big city."

  Tamara closed her menu as well. "Actually, the bigger adjustment came when I left here and moved to New York. I never really made the adjustment. Everything there always seemed too fast, too frantic and too surreal for me."

  "What made you move there?"

  It was hard for her to concentrate and look at him at the same time. The flickering candlelight emphasized the angles and planes of his handsome face, giving him a slightly predatory look.

  She looked down at her menu cover. "My work … and the agent who agreed to represent me. He thought it would be a good idea if I lived in New York. So, after several months of thinking it over, I decided to give it a try."

  She looked up into his dark eyes where the candlelight seemed to turn his pupils silver. "New York just didn't work out for me. I'm happier, more centered here in Che
rokee Corners."

  At that moment the waitress arrived to take their orders. When she'd departed with their orders in hand, Tamara sought to change the topic of conversation from her to him.

  "Your work must be fascinating," she said.

  "If you like science, which I do."

  Again their conversation was interrupted as the waitress returned with a bottle of red wine and poured them each a glass, then departed once again.

  "What made you decide to go into crime-scene investigation?" she asked, refusing to allow any awkward silences to develop between them.

  He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine, looking more relaxed than he had since the moment he'd picked her up. "When I was working homicide several years ago, my father came to me and told me he wanted a crime-scene investigator unit here in town. At that time he was chief of police and knew that particular part of police work had always intrigued me."

  "Because you like science."

  He nodded. "With science there's no guesswork. You run the tests, you get results. There's no room for emotion or trying to guess if somebody is lying to you. You don't have to deal with the human element at all."

  For her, his answer was quite telling of the kind of man he was, the kind of man who had worried his open, giving mother, the kind of man who Tamara should have no interest in whatsoever.

  "How's your father holding up?" she asked, then raised her wineglass to take a sip.

  "As well as can be expected. It's difficult on him … as it is on all of us." He leaned forward. "I assume Jeb got the deer off your porch last night?"

  It was obvious he wanted a subject change, that he wasn't about to share any of his feelings with her about the disappearance of his mother. Tamara was neither surprised nor offended. He owed her nothing of his feelings.

  "It was gone when I woke up this morning," she replied. "Thank you for talking to Jeb about it."

  "In this heat, it needed to be disposed of as soon as possible. Have you thought anymore about anyone who might be living your legend?"

  She smiled. "It isn't my legend and no, I still can't imagine anyone crazy enough to reenact the legend."