Blind: Killer Instincts

by Sidney Bristol

  “And last night’s murder? I’ve seen the pictures. It’s a copycat job if I ever saw one.” Stevenson planted his hands on his hips, lips pursed.

  “We don’t know—”

  “Bullshit, Lieutenant. Someone doesn’t go to this degree of detail without the intent to follow through.” Stevenson glanced at Jacob, then Miller again, as if weighing his decisions. “I’m going to invite the FBI in on this.”

  Miller pushed to his feet. “But—”

  Stevenson held up his hand. “The perp is obviously focusing on Jacob here, as the son of the man who put TBK behind bars. We do not have the objectivity to handle this. I will keep you notified if they accept our invitation or not. I also expect Detective Payton and all of the original TBK evidence to be made available to them, and the full backing of this department. Understood?”

  Jacob kept his mouth shut. Miller’s face was an ugly shade of red, and the man’s jaw moved without sound.

  “Payton, with me.” Stevenson stalked out of the office without a care that Miller was fuming.

  Jacob gave his LT a mock salute. Take that, asshole.

  “Payton, do not screw this up or I’ll have you on desk duty for a year,” Miller said, his voice pitched barely above a whisper.

  “Got to go. Killers to catch.”

  Jacob followed in the wake of the chief of police, who was already at the elevator, holding the door to an empty lift.

  “Jacob, what the hell?” The doors had barely closed before Stevenson turned on him. “Why am I hearing about this from the news and not you?” He tugged at his tight-fitting collar. Though Kevin Stevenson could play the part of a suit, he was a pavement-pounding cop to the core. Kevin had been Jacob’s father’s partner for years, and part of Jacob’s childhood.

  Jacob blew out a breath. “I brought it to Miller. If I went over his head, he’d be taking it out on me for months.”

  Stevenson shook his head. “I wish you could play politics, son. I really do.”

  Jacob shrugged. He wasn’t like Stevenson. He couldn’t play nice forever. The only thing keeping him in line with Miller right now was that he’d been written up a few weeks ago for being overzealous in his investigations.

  “Do you think the feds will come in on this?”

  “I hope so. Miller’s a good LT, but I’d rather this be in the hands of someone who can look at this objectively. We’re going to end up with more copycats and TBK fanatics within the week if we don’t nip this in the bud and catch him quick.” They exited the elevator and made their way to the executive offices.

  They were going to war, and as much as Jacob wanted to be the man to lead them into the fray, he could see Stevenson’s point. Hell, he even agreed with him.

  Emma glanced in her rear-view mirror and frowned. The cars all appeared different. So why couldn’t she shake the feeling someone was watching? It had started after her little chat with Derrick, then when she went to the gas station for drinks and now on her way to Jacob’s. Was it Derrick? Was he being a sore loser and following her? Wouldn’t surprise her, but they were over. Done with.

  Besides, for some crazy reason she was actually nervous about her not-date with the hottie of a cop. It wasn’t a date. At least, normal dates didn’t involve getting together to hash out murder details. And yet it was going to be the best date she’d had in ages.

  She turned onto a street lined with small, old houses that had to have been around since the Great Depression. Jacob wasn’t kidding when he said he lived close to downtown. During the afternoon, the skyscrapers would practically cast their shadows over the neighborhood.

  While the rest of the guys were going out for a dirt bike ride, followed by a bonfire BYOB party on a Friday night, she was going to talk about serial killers. It was an odd life she lived, but TBK had branded her with his darkness before she’d been born. She’d never escape his mark, and now someone wanted to fuck with what he’d done.

  “Your destination is on the left,” her phone announced.

  The house was one of the better kept homes on the block. The exterior was painted slate gray, with blue shutters, trim, and door. The lawn wasn’t a work of art, but it was obvious Jacob tended to it regularly. It didn’t look much like a bachelor pad, but what did she know about houses?

  Emma had never lived in a house, at least not one that couldn’t be moved. She’d grown up in trailer homes, mobile parks, and RVs when times got really tough. The closest she’d gotten was her current lodgings, splitting a duplex with her friend, Amanda. It was a temporary situation, until Emma figured out what she wanted to do next. Whatever it was, she wanted to change things, get out of the hole she’d dug for herself while she was with Derrick.

  Her hands were full, so she knocked on the door with her knee. Her nerves were buzzing in her stomach. The door swung open, and Jacob stood on the other side. The second she met his gaze, an electric shiver zipped down her spine and her heart beat heavier.

  “Hey. Wow, what is that?”

  “A peace offering. Wanna take it? It’s heavy.”

  He stepped closer and scooped the metal sculpture from her arms. He stared at it, his brow creased in confusion. It was kind of a cute expression on such a confident type of man. She grinned. Yeah, it was weird to bring a present to the guy she’d told to fuck off, but something about Detective Jacob Payton had stuck with her. She wasn’t going to fight it. Truth be told, she had too much merchandise on her hands right now from putting in long hours instead of hanging out with Derrick, so giving away one small piece would make room for another.

  “Uh.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry. What is it?”

  She tossed her head back and laughed. “It’s a lawn ornament. You put it out front, people look at it, think it’s pretty.”

  “Oh.” His gaze traveled over her, and her damn nerves danced up and down her spine. “I only got you dinner.”

  “I like dinner.” She shrugged.

  “Let’s put it out here.”

  She followed him to the lawn. He studied one side of the yard and then the other before finally deciding to position the sculpture in front of the large windows on the right side of the house and stood back to study it.

  “What exactly is it?” he asked, still sounding a bit perplexed.

  “I made the pedestal out of reclaimed metal. Those are all old mufflers. I wanted something to emulate clouds and dreaming. The crystal is supposed to absorb bad energy. Altogether it protects the house and residents from evil spirits, especially while you sleep.” She shrugged. “I didn’t have time to make a pig or a donut.”

  “Funny. Thanks.” He cracked a smile at that. It transformed his face, from hot to dead sexy.

  What do you know? He has a sense of humor.

  “You’re welcome. I figured I owed you an apology.” She mentally pulled herself together. It wasn’t fair that a guy flashing her a little teeth could knock her off her thoughts, but he had.

  She might not trust cops as a whole, but he might be okay. At least when she searched his name on the Internet there weren’t any viral videos of him beating people like other cops.

  “Come inside.” He placed his hand on the small of her back. The heat from his touch soaked into her skin, straight to her core. “I almost didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Let me grab the stuff from the truck first.”

  Jacob followed her to the passenger side and took the box before she could pick it up. She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it before she said a word. Jacob wasn’t Derrick. If a guy wanted to do something for her, she should let him.

  His hand went back on the small of her back. That one spot had some magical property she would never understand. It was as if a hand there short-circuited the rest of her cognitive ability until all she could think about was the point of contact. This wasn’t like her. She didn’t do the flirty, simpering girl routine. She was straightforward, direct, a little bawdy even. But her response to him was so different, it had her off-kilter.
<
br />   Jacob ushered her inside the house, through a man-cave of a living room in all brown leather and dark wood, and into a larger space that seemed to be a rec room of sorts. The country kitchen on her right was spacious and updated, while the corduroy sofas around the fireplace on her left looked inviting. There was also a pool table and a dining set that had that aged, hand-me-down look to it.

  “Nice place.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jean skirt and turned around.

  “Thanks. It was my grandfather’s. He left it to my dad, but Dad didn’t need it, so I got it. It’s been a work in progress ever since. Have a seat.” He gestured to the bar stools lined up along the counter overlooking the kitchen. “Want anything to drink? Tea? Water? Beer?”

  “Beer,” she said as she slid onto one of the stools. A little liquid courage never hurt. Besides, it might calm her down a bit. Or something. She had the jitters bad.

  There was something charming about the sight of Jacob in the kitchen, barefoot, his hair mussed and hands massaging a chicken breast. Hell, the idea of a man in the kitchen doing anything except making a mess was a miracle. She was almost afraid to make a sudden movement, or he might bolt and leave it to her.

  She took the beer he offered her and sipped it. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Um, not right now. I think I’ve got everything going.”

  “Aren’t you a Mr. Crocker, handling your meat so well?”

  “I handle meat just fine, thank you very much. You’ll like my meat.” He stroked the chicken while giving her that come-hither stare.

  She took a deep swig of the beer to keep from telling him what else she’d like him to do with his meat. What had gotten into her? Not him, but something. She was losing sight of why she was here, which was to hear about the TBK copycat case. Instead, she was starting to strategize how she could get into his pants.

  “It’s my way of getting stress and shit out after work.” Jacob glanced up at her once more, his expression a little sheepish.

  “What? Cooking?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’ve had anger issues.”

  “Anger issues? Like beating people?” The distrust crept back into her voice. What kind of a cop was he?

  “No. Never that. Cops like that...they wouldn’t want me on a jury of their peers. I deal with my issues.” Jacob drew in a deep breath, his knife poised above the chicken.

  “Yeah?” Emma’s voice broke through his thoughts.

  “What’s happening lately...in the news?” He shook his head and trimmed the meat. “It’s unacceptable. I took this job to protect people. I don’t care what color someone’s skin is, what side of the tracks they live on or whatever. As cops we’re supposed to protect people. I get so pissed off...”

  The knife slipped on the glass cutting board and he slammed the handle on the hard surface. This was an anger she could understand. And appreciate.

  Jacob shook his head and picked up the knife again. She could almost feel him refocusing his energy, pouring it out through the knife and into what he was doing. Here was a man self-aware of his shortcomings and how to handle them.

  “I took an anger management course a while back. They suggested finding a healthy way to work out frustrations.”

  “And cooking was it?”

  “No, my mother was it.”

  “No.” She laughed at the idea of an older, graceful woman with his eyes twisting Jacob’s ear and sitting him in a corner of the kitchen. Was it possible the cop was human after all?

  “Yeah. Dad had passed away and I was losing my shit. Snapping at people, I was rough with a suspect once, not physically. Verbally. It was a child molester. I hate those cases. I didn’t handle a situation the best. I was going downhill, and I started the classes as a way to show my LT that I was trying to get my act together. But as soon as I finished the classes I’d go get trashed at some dive. It started with her picking me up from a bar, totally wasted. She’d bring me home and make scrambled eggs to soak up the liquor. One night, I passed up the bar entirely and went to the kitchen. The rest is history.”

  “You must be really close with her.” Emma’s heart squeezed. Her mother had always been addicted to Daddy, and Daddy was addicted to the bottle. It hadn’t left much room for her.

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “She’s not jealous you’re passing up dinner with her tonight?”

  “Mom moved to Florida a few years ago. Just me now.”

  He slid the chicken into the oven and wiped his hands off while he studied her. She resisted the urge to fidget. God, she wanted to kiss that mouth again, but that wasn’t the reason he asked her over tonight. What did he see when he looked at her like that?

  3.

  G

  od, she was beautiful.

  Jacob cleared his throat. He was staring when he needed to be talking.

  “The chief is bringing in the feds to handle the case tomorrow. They’re flying down tonight to take over,” he said as he washed his hands, trying to get his mind back on why he’d asked her over. Which was not to leer at her amazing legs.

  “What the fuck? No.” Emma slapped her hand on the countertop.

  “It’s actually a good thing.”

  “How is that a good thing? They’re taking your job from you.”

  “Not really. Come over here for a minute.” He gestured toward the corduroy couches set up around the fireplace. “My LT is a good face for the media, and he knows how to play department politics, but he’s not the best detective. I’m actually relieved we’re bringing someone else in. They’ll handle it ten times better than he or I would.”

  There. He’d said it out loud. As much as it chapped his ass to not be in charge, it was the best decision.

  They settled on the couches, beer in hand, and the files he’d brought home with him spread out on the coffee table. He shouldn’t show her these, but she was the only other person who got this like he did.

  Emma studied him, her brow furrowed and mouth screwed up into a puzzled expression he wanted to smooth away with his mouth, to tease a smile from her. He might have forgotten how to smile, but he could enjoy the way she lit up a room with one. He was in awe of her. She’d built a life for herself out from under the shadow of what had happened to their parents. To them. He didn’t know if he could be half as strong as her, were he in her shoes. Life was hard enough where he was now.

  She was still staring at him with that odd look on her face.

  Right, they weren’t talking about her.

  They were talking about the case.

  Jacob knew his decision didn’t make a lot of sense to others. He should want to stay lead on the investigation. It would be a career-changing opportunity. But he’d never put much stock in moving up the ladder. He didn’t want to be promoted to a desk, playing nice with crooks in suits. All he’d ever wanted to do was put killers behind bars. And if that meant bringing in the feds, well, he’d play chauffeur and babysitter if that’s what it meant. Besides, he’d be close enough to the action, and profilers were a different creature entirely. He could learn something from them.

  “So...what happened? Why are they saying it’s TBK?” She sipped her beer, brow still marred by those lines.

  “Body posing. Removal of the eyes. The letters.” He ticked off each on his fingers, but took a deep breath before laying the last item out there. “Sexual orientation.”

  “What?”

  “TBK’s first vic was a woman suspected to be part of the lesbian community, but it was thirty years ago. No one talked about that. Today, our vic runs the OKC Pride Week. I mean, he had—”

  “Harold?” Emma gasped.

  Jacob went still, every fiber in his body screaming. “You knew him?”

  She set her beer down and turned to face him, her face a little pale. “Not really. I mean, I met him once. He came out to the track to talk to some of the guys that run the local motocross series about doing a special Pride Week thing. We talked a little. What? Why are you
looking at me like that?”

  “Nothing, I’m just—tired.” He glanced away, his thoughts whirling away. Harold was a people person. It shouldn’t surprise Jacob that Harold would know someone in about every circle of people. Jacob was grasping for straws where there weren’t any. It was coincidence that Emma had run into Harold once, nothing more.

  “But it is a copycat?” she asked.

  “I think so. It’s not a serial killer investigation—yet—but I’m afraid it’s going to become that soon.” He eased back onto the cushions, letting the age-worn sofa cradle him.

  “What qualifies a serial killer? Is there a test? A quiz?”

  He chuckled. “I would have thought you knew these things.”

  “Hey, I’m not the cop here.” She leaned against the arm of the sofa, her legs stretched toward him and smiled. He had a feeling she knew the power of her looks, which was why he didn’t feel quite so lecherous admiring her.

  “How’d you start doing that lawn ornament stuff? I saw your website.” He sipped his beer, enjoying the view.

  “Such a stalker.” She shook her head, but the smile was back. “Shop class in high school. Someone gave me a blow torch, and I found out I could do something besides drive really fast. When did you have time to find out so much about me?”

  “Before our date.”

  “Is that what we’re calling last night now, a date?”

  “You did let me buy you dinner.”

  One side of her mouth hitched higher. “And you did kiss me.”

  Yes he had, and he wanted to do it again. He tightened his hold on the bottle. He knew what her hair between his fingers felt like, what she sounded like when she panted for breath, and he knew how her lips tasted. And he wanted more.

  They stared at each other, and he had to wonder what she was thinking. She said she didn’t like cops. Hell, she’d all but run from him, but now she was back of her own free will. What secrets was she hiding? Did he want to know them?

  The aroma of baking chicken, herbs, and cheese wafted through the space, but nothing else existed between them.