Violets Are Blue

by Velvet Vaughn

  Jake was surprised she hadn’t gotten sick. There was no way to prepare for the shock that the cloying scent of death assailed on the olfactory system: a mix of blood and body fluids and sometimes decay. He had seen many big, strong men lose it when they came across their first dead body. It'd happened to him many years ago.

  "I flipped on the light…." She swallowed hard and wrung her hands together, her voice husky with unshed tears. "I-I saw…." Her eyes clamped shut. "I rushed over to her…Rayann. I knew it was bad because of the blood. T-there wasn’t one…a pulse. I ran back to my office to call for help." The last came out on a choked sob.

  She was so distraught, so upset, he had to comfort her. He reached over and grasped her hand. It was ice cold but he still felt a small jolt. Probably static electricity. "I know this is hard on you," he offered sincerely, "but did you notice anything else in the room, anything unusual?"

  The woman’s brow furrowed trying to remember the horrible scene. "I noticed a piece of paper lying across her body. The first line said ‘Roses are red,’ I think. Something like that. It’s the serial killer, isn’t it?"

  Keeping the truth from her would do no good at this point. She would hear it on the news in the morning. "It looks like it could be the unsub—that's police-speak for unknown subject," he informed her, "but we aren’t positive yet. Certain aspects of the crime scene are similar to the others."

  "There is something else," she admitted quietly.

  Jake shifted, wondering what else she heard about the other murders. Surely not the lingerie. That information hadn’t been leaked. He hoped. His hand absently stroked hers.

  "There have been how many now, three?" At his confirmation of the number she added, "I’ve taught all of them."

  Jake’s eyes snapped from their clasped hands to her face. He had been in a pseudo-trance, staring at their fingers after she had twined hers with his. His big hand engulfed her dainty one. Her nails were nicely manicured and free of polish. At her revelation, something clicked into place in his mind. The victims all had long dark hair, just like hers. He felt an unexpected surge of panic.

  He would not upset her more by revealing other similarities tonight. The urge to protect this fragile woman overwhelmed him. He wanted to pull her into his arms, stroke her silky hair and promise nothing would happen to her, which was absurd since he didn’t know her at all.

  Two paramedics backed out of the janitor’s closet towing a gurney, a zipped black bag resting on the cushion. They wheeled the body down the hall. The woman gasped and suddenly his urge to hold and protect her materialized as she threw herself in his arms, her head buried against his shoulder. Instinctively he wrapped her tight against him, one palm rubbing her back, the other anchoring her head against his shoulder until the paramedics turned the corner and pushed the gurney out of sight. He stroked her hair, the soft locks flowing through his fingers like spun silk. She shuddered in his arms and then it was as if all the fight left her body and she melted against him.

  They stayed that way for a while, activity bustling around them, but they were in their own world, just the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms. Her protective dog didn’t make a sound but he didn’t take his eyes off Jake either. He ignored the sly looks from the cops, not feeling the need to defend himself to anyone. The woman was clearly distraught and needed comfort and he’d be damned if he sat by and let her suffer alone.

  She hadn’t moved in a while and he figured she'd crashed. He would drive her home, make sure her doors were locked and order Turner to step up patrol in the area. He was glad she had Zeus–the big dog would alert her to any intruders.

  She stirred in his arms and pushed away from him. "I’m so sorry," she said, wiping her face. She still hadn’t looked him in the eye. "I shouldn’t have done that."

  "Ms. Anastasia, I'm sure that you're tired. Why don’t I take you home so you can get some sleep? We can continue this in the morning."

  "I won’t get much sleep, but I would like to leave."

  Jake cupped her elbow and helped her stand. "I’ll drive you—" His words were cut off when a man came barreling down the hall, a long overcoat bellowing behind him like a superhero’s cape. Zeus scrambled to his feet and bared his fangs.

  "Oh, love, there you are. I rushed over as soon as I heard. Are you all right, my darling?" The man grabbed her in a fierce hug. Zeus lunged for him, barking furiously. Jake’s quick reflexes saved the day by grabbing his collar.

  "Shh," he whispered to the dog to calm him.

  "That’s enough questioning for tonight," the little man spat out, pinning Jake with his beady gaze. "Can’t you see what an ordeal she has been through? I’m taking her home right now." The man started to steer her away but she stopped him.

  "It’s okay, Todd. The detective has been very nice."

  Nice? Wonderful. Just how a man wanted to be described. Did you meet Jake Kincaid? He sure was nice. He shook his head and noticed that Ms. Anastasia had her arm around the man and leaned heavily on him, like she had on him moments earlier. Jake’s brows slammed together. Her boyfriend? He was a little disappointed that she would settle for a man who was obviously arrogant, cynical and nowhere near her league.

  Without looking up from the floor she remarked, "It was nice to meet you, Detective."

  There was that dreaded word again. Nice. He didn’t bother correcting her misassumption that he was a detective. "Ms. Anastasia, I need to ask you a few more questions in the morning. Can I come by your house?"

  "Haven’t you badgered her enough?" the scrawny man huffed. "Besides, she’s coming home with me."

  Narrowing his eyes at the Harry Potter look-alike, Jake opened his mouth to tell him to butt out but a tall blonde strode forward with an air of authority. He recognized her as the woman sitting beside Ms. Anastasia when he first arrived.

  "Geez, Todd, you're going to smother her." Dressed in a long coat and black pants with a muffler wrapped around her neck, she took Violet’s other arm. "Do you want me to stay with you?" she asked softly.

  Ms. Anastasia shook her head. "I would rather be by myself tonight. I'll probably be up early so I’ll come to the station, if that’s okay?" she responded to Jake’s query.

  She directed the statement to Jake but still no eye contact. He toyed with the idea of nodding so she would be forced to look at him for a response. But remembering what she had witnessed tonight made him answer, "That would be fine." He pulled out a business card and scrawled information on the back. "Ask for me at the front desk. I’ve been called in to help with the case so I don’t have an office, but they'll be able to locate me."

  Nodding, she eased the card from his grip. His hope for the elusive look was dashed again. She accepted the leash he offered and lurched forward when Zeus strained to get at the other man.

  "Come on, darling. I’ll get you home." The man glared at Jake before taking her hand, Zeus hissing the entire time. The man muttered something that sounded like "damn dog." Then he was all care and concern as he crooned, "I was so worried about you, love," as he hugged her and stroked her hair.

  The tall woman rolled her eyes conspiratorially at Jake. "I’m Chris Stark," she introduced with a handshake. "I’ll make sure she gets home safely." With a wave she hurried up to sidle between the two. "Quit hogging Violet, Todd," she chastised.

  Jake’s entire body stiffened. He felt like he had been sucker-punched and he fought to push air through his lungs. He fumbled for his notebook and flipped rapidly through the pages until he found what he was looking for. "Ms. Anastasia." No first name. Now he knew.

  Her name was Violet.

  All the victims had long black hair like hers. The killer chose to taunt the police with the ‘Roses are Red’ poems that included a line about violets.

  Could the killer be obsessed with the woman disappearing down the corridor? He recognized her, certainly. That much was obvious from his latest poem.

  Jake spun around to scan the hallway. Where the hell was Turner? He
couldn’t let this woman go without making sure she would be safe tonight. Dammit, Turner wasn’t anywhere in sight and she was about to round the corner.

  "One more thing, Ms. Anastasia."

  She stopped, but didn’t face him, not even a turn of her head even though her two companions did. "Yes?"

  He sighed. "Do you have a security system?" She shook her head. Damn. "Make sure you lock your doors and windows."

  A shudder racked her body. Ms. Stark guided her forward while the man gave Jake one last glare before they disappeared.

  For a short man with thinning brown hair and thick glasses, Jake sure envied the hell out of him.

  #

  "We’ve got a boatload of fingerprints in here." Turner hitched his head toward the storage room.

  "Not surprising," Jake replied absently, having finally tracked down the elusive detective. "We got our first break."

  Turner’s eyes widened. "The witness remember something?"

  He shook his head. "Did you happen to catch her name?"

  Turner flipped through his notebook. "Anastasia. Don’t know if that is a first or last name."

  "Last. Her first name is Violet." He let the information sink in.

  The detective looked up from writing her name and succinctly said, "Shit."

  "Yeah."

  "Her name is Violet and the killer was able to modify his poem to include her name."

  The same thought had been bothering Jake. "I don’t believe in coincidences."

  "The killer definitely knows her and may go after her if he thinks she can ID him."

  Jake ran a hand through his hair. "That’d be my guess."

  "Where is she now?"

  "A couple of friends were taking her home."

  Turner made a phone call and sent a patrol car to follow and make sure she arrived safely. After he hung up, he indicated the crime scene. "We’ll have to fingerprint the staff, but that won’t help a whole hell of a lot."

  "It could be any one of them since they had access," Jake confirmed. "Still, I’d like to have copies of the prints on file for reference."

  Turner nodded. "I couldn’t get in touch with the dean, but I did speak to his secretary. I’ll have her notify everyone."

  "Ms. Anastasia knew of three keys to this door." Jake walked over and examined the lock. "No signs of forced entry. The window’s been checked?"

  "Yep. It hasn’t been opened in decades. Several layers of paint have effectively sealed it shut."

  "Unless the door was unlocked, the unsub used a key."

  Turner cracked his knuckles. "We’ve got someone trying to locate the janitor but so far, no luck in finding him." He stepped aside as a photographer exited the room. "Did Ms. Anastasia see the note?"

  "She saw it but didn’t read past the first line."

  "So she doesn’t know he recognized her?"

  Jake shook his head. "I didn’t want to upset her more tonight. She's coming into the station in the morning. We can tell her then. I want to go over all the notes and see what we can piece together before she arrives."

  "It’s definitely the same guy, but he altered his routine." He started ticking off points on his fingers. "She had dark hair, though not quite as long as the others; the note is along the same lines, but the brush he used to write with is different, rougher; she had on ill-fitting lingerie that wasn’t hers which is consistent; and her throat was slit. She was restrained, but with ropes, not cuffs. No signs of a struggle."

  "She was an active participant," Turner guessed.

  "Right up until the end," Jake said. "Maybe she approached him and he used the opportunity to continue his quest."

  "Detective Turner, a TV news crew just arrived."

  Both men turned and followed the policewoman’s pointed finger. A bright strobe light blinded Jake and he slammed his eyes closed.

  "Dammit," Turner cursed.

  Jake gingerly lifted his lids, waiting for the black spots to fade. Making sure not to look directly at the light, he spotted a petite blond woman in front of a camera with a microphone, her back to them. The cameraman said something to her and she glanced over her shoulder. Spinning on her heel, she strode forward, hand extended. "Detective Turner?"

  Turner glowered.

  His refusal to acknowledge that she had the right person or her handshake didn’t faze her. "I’m Olivia Larrson with WBTN-TV. Is it true that the Burlington Butcher has struck again?" She thrust the microphone in his face.

  "Jesus," Jake muttered. "Burlington Butcher."

  "Get that camera out of here," Turner ordered with a sweep of his arm. "This is an active crime scene." He called one of the uniforms over and instructed him to escort the two away.

  The woman waited until her crewman stopped taping and lowered the camera from his shoulder before she stepped closer. "Detective Turner, have you been able to notify Ms. Rodriguez’s family yet?"

  "Who in the hell gave you that name?"

  She shook her head and lifted her shoulders, the picture of wide-eyed innocence and homespun beauty.

  "I will not confirm the name of the victim and if you so much as breathe it out loud—"

  "With all due respect, Detective Turner," she interrupted forcefully, not the least bit intimidated. "I would not release the name until we received the official confirmation from your department. It would be against my station’s policy and my personal ethics as well."

  Turner looked on the verge of an explosion, so Jake stepped forward. "Mrs. Larrson—"

  "It’s Ms.," she corrected with a friendly smile. There was a time, say an hour ago, when Jake would have found the woman immensely attractive, incredibly sexy. She was a gorgeous, stacked, intelligent blonde, his preferred type, say, an hour ago. That changed when he met a raven-haired beauty with the face of an angel.

  "Ms. Larrson," he amended. "We'll hold a press conference in the morning. Your station will be notified of the specifics."

  "And you are?"

  "Jake Kincaid."

  "FBI?"

  He nodded but then shook his head. "Former FBI. Private security now."

  "So I was right, it is a serial killer," she said almost to herself.

  "Burlington Butcher?"

  She smiled sheepishly. "I was looking for something catchy."

  "That ought to do it," he agreed. "Press conference, tomorrow," he repeated, guiding a still fuming Turner away.

  "I look forward to it, Mr. Kincaid," she said in a not-so-subtle come-on. Sadly, it didn’t affect him at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  January 9

  Violet turned onto North Avenue and headed for the Burlington Police Department. Her eyes watered from yet another yawn. She hadn’t slept a wink last night. She kept picturing Rayann, her bruised, battered body, all the blood. She drifted off once and woke up screaming. Finally, she got up and drank some tea, passing time until it was time to start the day. She could've taken Chris or even Todd up on their offer to stay with her, but she'd been on her own so long, it was all she knew.

  Flipping on her blinker, she waited for a snowplow to pass before she veered into the parking lot. Mother Nature dumped two more inches last night and the streets were covered in a blanket of white. A layer of brown slush coated her jeep as the plow passed. She flicked on the wipers and angled into a space close to the front entry.

  She sat in her car for a few minutes after turning off the engine, gathering her courage. She detested police stations. They brought back painful memories of her childhood.

  Forcing her feet to move, she climbed out and entered the building. It was early so she was the only one in the lobby as she approached the counter. The smell of coffee and a low din of chatter filled the air.

  "Excuse me," Violet said to the officer behind the desk with his back to her.

  The cop spun around quickly and jumped to his feet. "Oh, sorry, ma’am."

  Officer Burns, she noted from his name tag, looked like he should still be in high school. The freckles that complimen
ted his red hair didn’t help.

  "How can I assist you?"

  "I need to speak to…." she glanced at the card in her hand, "Jake Kincaid. My name is Violet Anastasia. I know it’s early and he may not be in, but he is expecting me."

  "Hell, oops, sorry ma’am, I meant heck." Red crept up his neck. He gave her a sheepish grin. "I don’t think the man sleeps. He’s here, I’ll get him. You can wait right over there. The coffee’s fresh. I just made it." He indicated a small area with a coffee machine and chairs lining the wall.

  "Thank you." Violet paced over and took a seat. A few cops stood around chatting. This was nothing like the other time she'd been in a police station. She'd been a young girl then, forever scarred by what happened that night long ago.

  Forcing her thoughts elsewhere, she listened as phones jangled and buzzy conversation filled the room. The scent of coffee was strong, overwhelming the light pine fragrance of freshly mopped floors. Her gaze raked the space and then snapped back to a tall man leaning against a wall, speaking with another man dressed in a blue suit. The tall one had short, dark hair that stood up in places, like he had raked his hand through it. Long fingers rubbed his granite jaw as he listened to something the other said. His cheekbones were angular and his nose the perfect size for his face. A navy blazer accentuated broad, well-muscled shoulders and when he shoved a hand through his hair—she had been right about that—the material strained against thick biceps.

  Michelangelo’s David had nothing on this man.

  The other person said something and his mouth curved wide, straight white teeth gleaming in the florescent lighting. She almost sighed out loud when a dimple appeared in one cheek.

  Violet watched in stunned shock as Officer Burns approached, said something to him and then turned and pointed. She inhaled deeply as the man’s gaze lifted to hers.

  All the noise in the room faded until all she heard was the rapid thundering of her heart beat, beat, beating in her chest. Her focus narrowed until all she could see was this breathtaking man. His grin slowly faded and even from a distance, his sea green eyes sparkled with intensity. His gaze was like a physical touch, burning her skin, heating her body.