Blind: Killer Instincts

by Sidney Bristol

  He cleared his throat. “I hope I’m not being pushy here, but I understand that you have some letters TBK sent to your family before their—death?”

  Cock-blocked again by a dead serial killer. She hated that bastard. It was probably for the best anyway.

  “Don’t be silly. That’s why you contacted me in the first place. And you can call it a murder. I’m not sensitive about it.” She shrugged and pulled a scrapbook out of a portable plastic filing box she’d brought with her. “TBK stands for, as you probably know, torture, blind, and kill. He gave himself that name, and we know that because he signed it on all his communications. TBK was known for sending letters to the police, newspaper, and even his victims. He liked people to be scared. Sort of a mind-fuck. Anyway, while a lot of the letters were sent to the police with details about his future victims, a couple of times he even told them how he was going to pose a body, and he did send some to his victims before the murders. My grandparents actually got several from him. The problem was that he messed up their address, so the letters bounced up and down the street before one of the neighbors walked them down to the house and left them in the mail slot after their death. They were actually boxed up when the house was cleaned out, and I didn’t find them until a few years ago, which is why they were never in the official evidence at the trial.”

  “Really?” He held his hand out.

  “I have to warn you, these are graphic.” She held the book to her chest and watched his face carefully. She kept the letters separate from the books about her grandparents. Not everyone wanted to be exposed to them. TBK had a flare for the gruesome and there was no doubt he’d positioned the bodies to have the most impact.

  His features tensed a little and he nodded. She handed the book over and let him flip it open. For several moments he stared at the first one, his brows drawing down and his lips squeezing together.

  “Are these consistent with his other letters?” Jacob continued to pore over the first page, which was the least offensive of the collection.

  “Yes. I had them compared to the documents in evidence downtown.”

  “And the cops didn’t want these?”

  She shrugged. “Why? TBK was dead. They didn’t need them. The notarized certificate of authenticity is on the last page if you don’t believe me.”

  Jacob flipped to the next page. “TBK.”

  “Yeah, he signed them all by hand, while the rest of the letter was a hodgepodge of words cut from magazines and stuff. I think he thought they could figure out who he was by his handwriting.”

  “But he still risked signing them?”

  She shrugged. “Ego maybe? It doesn’t make any sense to me, but neither does killing a bunch of people.”

  He quietly perused the last pages, only glancing at the notarized certificate before handing the book back to her after a few moments. “You have some other letters?”

  He was persistent. He didn’t even glance at her boobs now, and that was a shame. All business, no play.

  “I do.” She filed the scrapbook back in her box and retrieved a second thick book full of plastic sleeves and pages. She handed it over with a shrug. “I have letters from three-fourths of the murders.”

  “Really? How did you get to keep these?” He seemed horrified, but she couldn’t wrap her head around why. What was it he was looking for? She tried her best to stay out of her clients’ business. Maybe she should have asked Jacob a few more questions about why he was so interested in TBK.

  “TBK was meticulous about how he picked his victims, but he wasn’t so great about making sure the letters got to people who would open them. A lot of the families got the letters and hid them. Some of the letters were lost in the mail like my grandparents’. I really came into them by accident. Like the first family, they sort of threw them at me. They were ready to get rid of them, but didn’t want to trash them.”

  “The cops didn’t want these?”

  “The families never turned them over. It seems like some of them pushed stuff under the rug to try to move on.”

  “That’s hindering the investigation.” His frown deepened.

  “Maybe to you, but for them it was survival. These people were grieving and trying to put tragedy behind them. They did it however they could. It might not have been the right way, but it’s what they did.”

  He wasn’t like the others. Usually the people who sought her out spent forever poring over the words and the pictures. He seemed to be after something specific. He clearly wasn’t going to outright ask her what he wanted to know, and for some reason she couldn’t stop wondering why. She had enough issues without adding another, but she could never keep her nose in her own business. She wasn’t about to judge them. She didn’t need any more cracks in her glass house.

  Jacob tried to focus on the food. The barbecue was some of the best he’d had in ages, and he was pretty picky when it came to calling food good. But any time he’d begin to mull the flavors over, Emma would dip her finger in the sauce and lick it off, and he’d be back to staring at that mischievous smile, those dark, soulful eyes.

  Emma Ration was not the woman he’d expected.

  He’d read her file, knew enough of her life story that he’d expected to find some washed-up, hard-used woman working an angle. But she was different. Unlike her father, unlike Jacob, TBK hadn’t left a mark on her he could see, and he knew the darkness of humanity. He saw it every day, working the streets of Oklahoma City. But despite his gut feeling about her, he still couldn’t trust her. Could he? Did he dare lay it all out on the table and pick her brain for real? No, he didn’t. People like her didn’t trust cops. So he’d torture himself a little more by watching her eat a sandwich like it was the best erotic film he’d ever seen.

  She was attractive in her realness. He couldn’t think of another word to describe it. Emma was authentic to who she was, and maybe that person was a little redneck, a little rough around the edges, but she didn’t seem like she was about to apologize for it.

  He’d have liked to be interviewing her father, but the Ration family survivor was next to impossible to find, as was his wife, Emma’s mother. There was also a baby momma and a younger son who was in the Navy before getting thrown in the federal prison. In a family of questionable people, Emma stuck out. There were two things in her file, a DUI and an altercation where no one had pressed charges. It sounded like some guy had tried to intimidate her, and she’d shown him how bad her bite could be.

  Emma was the kind of woman he needed to stay far away from. And yet, he’d kept digging.

  Thanks to social media, it was pretty easy to track down her current activities. She was a huge motocross racer, or whatever they were called. She had a website dedicated to metal sculptures she made out of reclaimed trash. And she had a job at a garage that appeared to specialize in recreational vehicles.

  To top it all off, she was easy on the eyes. Her tank top stretched across ample breasts. It was a show of will he didn’t just stare at them all night. Her left arm had a tattoo from shoulder to elbow of a dirt bike chick soaring through the air, done in pretty fine detail, against a backdrop of what he would call a race course. There were a few other tattoos, but he hadn’t paid attention to them. Her smile kept snagging his attention. There hadn’t been much to smile about these last few years, even less now. He was almost jealous of her easy ability to simply be happy. What was that like?

  Emma glanced up and caught him staring at her again. One side of her mouth kicked up. He wanted to lick those lips.

  “Do you have any other questions for me?” she asked between bites.

  He was pretty much done with what he needed. He could pay now, get up, and leave, which was the safer option. But it had been so long since he’d sat and eaten a meal with another person. A hell of a lot longer since that person was female and beautiful.

  “How’d you get started racing bikes?”

  “Mm, that’s personal.” She waggled her finger at him.

  He wante
d to peel back the layers, find out who she really was. What her secret for not allowing TBK to get to her was. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from her.

  “You didn’t mind so much earlier. You don’t share personal information until the second date?” Wait, what? His mouth was getting away from him. But he did want to see her again, even if it was the worst idea he’d ever had. As soon as she knew he was a cop, she’d run from him. Of that he was certain.

  She sputtered, caught off guard.

  “I mean, I figure since I’m buying you dinner and it’s just the two of us—this is kind of a date.” That was stretching the truth, but would it be so bad to see her again? He wasn’t breaking any rules.

  “But you forgot our third wheel.” She nodded toward the box.

  “It’s a dead guy and paper. I refuse to think that he counts as much as I do. I mean, I’m alive and breathing—and paying for dinner.” And she had been staring at him earlier as if she’d rather eat him than the chopped brisket sandwich she’d ordered.

  “Yeah, not first date material, sorry.” Her mouth curled up in that damn smile that made him want to pry her open, figure out what she was thinking. He was good at reading people, but right now he couldn’t get anything from her.

  He sighed and balled up his napkin. Fuck it. He wanted to see her again. “Damn, do I get to practice for this next date now?”

  “Hm, maybe.” She glanced up at the ceiling, as if she were thinking.

  “For our real first date, what would you like to do?” She didn’t strike him as the dinner and a movie kind of girl. Emma was a woman who did things.

  “You assume I’d go out with you.” She jabbed a fry at him.

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist, holding it while he leaned across the table and took the morsel of food from her fingers with his mouth. She stared at him, her eyes growing wider the closer he got. His lips touched her fingers as he bit the fry off and she sucked in a breath. Oh yeah, she wanted him, she was just playing hard to get.

  He leaned his elbow on the table and gentled his grasp on her wrist. Emma glanced around, her cheeks growing pink. Good. She was making him fucking crazy eating a damn sandwich. He’d rather lay her out and make a meal of her.

  She seemed to pull herself together a bit and leveled a glare at him.

  “You’re so sure of yourself.” She tugged against his hand, but he didn’t release his grip on her.

  “Not really, but when you see something you like, you don’t let it get away.” That sounded either smooth or creepy. He couldn’t quite decide which, but romance wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

  She bit her lip and nodded toward the menu. “When I was a teenager, my brother Travis got a dirt bike. His momma wouldn’t let him keep it, so I got it by default. I started racing in high school against the boys because there wasn’t a division for girls, and I kind of kicked their asses.”

  God, that little southern twang when she spoke did something to him. And she had a mouth on her that would make his mother blush. Most women needed a toned down version of him. He had to watch what he said, keep a tight control on his anger, and never talk work. Emma wasn’t like that. He felt more like himself than he had with another human being in ages.

  His smile widened. “I’d like to see that sometime. You still race?”

  “As often as I can. Fuck. I love it.” She brushed the crumbs from her sandwich off her fingers. “Are you from the FBI or something?”

  Jacob’s eyes widened and he swallowed his bite of food hurriedly. Damn. She was more perceptive than he’d expected, too. She might be more than a tad bit country, but that didn’t mean she was easily fooled. “No. Why would you say that?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure you out since you sat down. You aren’t like the intellectuals or the creepadoodles that usually want to see this shit. You’re younger, hot, fairly normal, and I think if you wanted something you’d go for it.”

  “And that makes me FBI?”

  “It doesn’t make you the type I usually see. You’re too old to be a student doing a research project. Journalists take lots of notes, ask hundreds of questions, and almost always focus on the negatives and sensationalize stuff. I don’t see journalists anymore, it’s too upsetting to the families, and I don’t have that kind of time. I figure you have to be FBI or something like that. Are you?”

  “No.” He took a long drink from his glass.

  His game was up. He wouldn’t lie to her, but telling her the truth was likely to put an end to this dinner. Emma’s dad was notorious for not speaking to cops. It was actually a blessing the man had gone into hiding. It meant there were no longer panicked calls to cops by reporters trying to get a story out of the infamous Ration family. Considering what had happened to Emma’s brother, and even to her, Jacob didn’t expect her to take the information well.

  “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?” She wiped her hands, and goodbye was written all over her face. If he didn’t come clean, he could kiss the possibility of a second date goodbye.

  He sat back in the booth, stretching one arm out over the cushion, studying her. What was he thinking? This was business, not hitting on a girl. He had to remember there was something else going on, something bigger than either of them.

  “Did you enjoy your meat?” he asked.

  She snorted. “It’s good. You handle yours okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

  “You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

  Jacob had to do it. Like it or not. He sucked in a deep breath and counted to ten, calming himself. “My dad was the detective in charge of the TBK case. He arrested Mitchell Black.”

  “No fucking way.” Emma gaped at the man across from her. “Are you a cop?”

  “Yeah. Detective, actually.” He shrugged and glanced away. Studying the cases, he hadn’t liked how her dad was handled, or how little the cops had done to mitigate the media coverage on the families. But he’d been a baby. And his father had changed with that case.

  “And you let me sit here and talk shit at you that you already knew?” The fury radiating off her was enough to make a lesser man duck and take cover.

  He hated the way she stared at him now, anger, hurt, confusion all there for him to see. Fuck. This was not what he wanted.

  Jacob leaned forward, hands upturned. “Look, I wanted to see the letters. I didn’t mean to piss you off. A lot of really shitty stuff went down on those last few TBK victims, and things should have been different.”

  “I think it’s time for me to go.” Emma grabbed her filing box and slid out of the booth. She kept her head down, not looking at him anymore. The flirtation and chemistry was gone.

  “Emma, no.” He dug out his wallet, dropping a generous amount on the table to cover the meal and tip, while she fled from him.

  It appeared the distrust of cops was a family trait. He shouldn’t take it personally, but Jacob’s whole life was about making Oklahoma City a safer place. Sure, there were a lot of fucked up, dirty cops out there, but that wasn’t him. Yeah, he had his issues—too much anger, short fuse, but he kept his cool on the job. He’d show her.

  Jacob strode out of the restaurant, pausing long enough to tell the hostess his payment was on the table before jogging out into the parking lot. He glanced left, and then right, before catching sight of a blonde ponytail.

  “Emma. Emma, wait!”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him but didn’t stop. That would be too easy. He’d bet money she was as stubborn as a mule.

  Emma stalked between the cars. He didn’t want to run her down, but like hell he was letting her leave yet. She had to understand. She might be in danger, too.

  She reached a silver pickup truck sitting on the edge of the dirt lot and the lights flashed. She reached for the handle, and he closed the last foot of space between them, planting his hand on the door and shoving it closed.

  He could smell the faint scent of oil and lemons on her this close. Her ponytail br
ushed his chest when she glanced over her shoulder at him, but her face was hidden in shadow. She was close, so close he could touch her. Would she let him?

  Business. He needed to stop thinking with his cock. He was a better detective than this.

  “Damn it, let me explain, okay?” he said.

  She side-stepped away from him and backed toward the bed of the truck. “And why should I?”

  He held up his hands. “Look, I know your dad doesn’t like cops. I understand why. In his situation, I would be pissed off, too. But if I’d told you I was a detective, would you have let me within ten feet of you?”

  She glared at him, the truth burning in her gaze. He hated that look.

  “No.”

  He glanced away, his lips pressed into a line. There wasn’t anything he could do to make her listen, hell, his lieutenant actively shut him down. Why should she be any different? Except, for an hour, he’d thought he’d found someone who really got him. Too bad she didn’t like cops. After this, she probably wouldn’t speak to him again. If she blocked his number, he wouldn’t be surprised. If this was his one chance, he had to get through to her. Make sure she knew what was out there.

  Jacob turned his face slowly toward her once more. She was still studying him, but glanced away hurriedly when his gaze met hers. He hated that she wouldn’t even look at him now. “I got a letter two weeks ago, and another a couple days after that. I thought the first one was a load of shit, so I tossed it in the garbage. Then I got the second one. They were sent to my house, not the station.” The images were still branded into his brain. He doubted they were stock images. Whoever those poor souls were, he hoped their death hadn’t been on par with what the TBK victims had suffered.

  She flinched, jaw dropping and brows drawing down, as if to say, What did this have to do with her?

  He licked his lips. Lieutenant Miller had told him he was wrong, that this was someone screwing with him. But Jacob’s gut told him differently. There were so many things fucked up with this situation that he didn’t know where to begin, but Emma deserved to be warned. She needed to know. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands clenched at his side.