Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2)

by Melinda Colt

  Dunhill’s head snapped up, his mouth agape.

  Chelsea also straightened herself. She needed to hear this.

  “What feelings?” Dunhill asked, his brow creased in confusion. “She’s my therapist. I’ve only seen her twice. I barely know her.”

  “Are you attracted to her?” Evan asked.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” the solicitor stated, inclining his head to his client.

  “I want to, because I have nothing to hide,” Dunhill said. “The answer is no. I mean, she is a good-looking woman, anyone would agree, but I don’t have the hots for her, if that’s the bloody question.”

  “Don’t you like blonde women and black cats?” Evan leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Dunhill.

  Dunhill looked at his solicitor as though saying ‘Is this for real?’

  The solicitor planted his palms on the table. Even his patience was running thin.

  “Detectives, my client is here to answer serious questions, but this interview is turning into a waste of time. I highly recommend he answers no further questions tonight.”

  “I agree.” Evan stood, and so did John. “He can rethink his answers while he spends his night in a jail cell. We’ll question him again tomorrow.”

  All the color drained from Dunhill’s face, while his solicitor’s cheeks filled with red.

  “You can’t possibly hold my client—”

  “I can and will,” Evan said, leaning forward, hands planted on the table. “We have clear evidence that your client’s car was instrumental in a murder. He has no alibi, nor any solid proof he wasn’t the one who committed said murder. He’s connected to two murders that took place within a week. His car will be confiscated asap and searched by the Technical Bureau. Until I have more information about this, he stays here.”

  Before either of the two men could say another word, Evan went out of the interview room and asked two Gardaí to escort Dunhill to a cell. John followed him into the observation room where Chelsea waited. She sat up and moved away from the uncomfortable chair, absently massaging her right hip. It hurt when she sat for too long.

  “What do you think?” Evan asked her, massaging the back of his neck.

  Chelsea looked at him, then at John. Finally, she shook her head.

  “Bloody bollocks if I know. Before, I would have said he’s innocent, but now…” She raised her arms in the air, vexed. “I don’t trust my judgment anymore. I didn’t foresee we had a serial killer, I could swear Black Dawn was a woman… It seems that I was wrong. There’s a lot of evidence pointing to Dunhill’s guilt.”

  John reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t you dare beat yourself up about it, lass. Neither of us suspected there would be a second murder, and we’re veteran coppers. You can never know everything, I don’t have to tell you that.”

  She blew out a breath, then nodded. “Aye. Ye both did great in there. Do you think he’ll break down tomorrow?”

  “Something’s got to give,” Evan said, standing against the door jam, his hands in his pockets. “Even with the superintendent’s approval we can only hold him for twenty-four hours without charging him. We’ll see what Nóirín and company find in his car tomorrow. Until then, let’s go home and get some rest. We all need it.”

  They headed out together, huddled in their coats. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the air was cold and heavy with humidity. After saying goodnight to John, Chelsea and Evan headed to his car.

  “Since Jack Dunhill is in lockup for the night, why can’t I sleep at home?” Chelsea asked as Evan started the engine.

  He gave her a long look. “What if he’s not the killer?”

  Staring back into his dark eyes, Chelsea swallowed audibly. The idea that they had the wrong man in custody was scary, but it couldn’t be ignored. She supposed she should be grateful that she’d been either too tired or too busy to think much of this whole situation. If she did, she was afraid she would lose it. How could she not freak out knowing someone was out there killing women who looked like her, especially when she herself might be on the list, no matter how long it was?

  They drove in silence to Evan’s place. The streets were deserted. The only movement they spotted was a stray dog walking dispiritedly toward a destination only he knew. His fur was wet, his ears downcast, his tail tucked between his legs. A wave of compassion filled Chelsea’s heart, and her eyes nearly overflowed with tears. She desperately wanted to stay numb, but everything was starting to sink in. Why was there so much sadness and meanness in the world? Two women might be dead because of her. Indirectly, had she done something to upset the fragile mind of some unknown individual who’d decided to end the lives of two women only because they bore a slight resemblance to her? Was it Jack Dunhill? God, she wanted to believe that, she wanted to believe it was going to end with his arrest, but deep down she wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  She could barely keep her eyes open when Evan unlocked the door to his flat and guided her inside, carrying her suitcase and laptop bag. Heat enveloped her, a scent of maleness and… security. Kieran strolled over to see what the noise was about. As she bent to stroke his head, his whiskers twitched. He recognized her and purred for a few seconds, then he returned to his comfy place on the couch. Chelsea watched him, remembering the picture Evan had taken of them together, the picture she couldn’t for the life of her recall posting on social media. What was going on with her brain? Did the stress of these murders and the lack of sleep affect her that much?

  “Are you hungry?”

  She nearly jumped at Evan’s question, then shook her head.

  “No, thank you. Honestly, I just need to sleep.” She picked up her small bag and headed to the sofa. “If you can lend me a blanket, I’ll—”

  “You’ll take the bed, and I don’t want to hear any arguments.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Evan propped his hands on his hips. “Look, can we argue about this in the morning? We’re both too tired now. I would feel like an asshole if I took the bed, I wouldn’t get any rest, and I wouldn’t be able to think straight—which is vital right now. So, if you please follow me, I’ll show you to the bedroom.”

  Despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t help a weak smile. “Reverse psychology with a touch of emotional blackmail. You’re not bad at this.”

  He grinned. “So I’ve been told. Come on.”

  He led her to the bedroom through the dark flat and turned on a night stand lamp. She stifled a moan. Nothing had ever looked as good as the unmade bed, with its plump pillows and thick duvet. It was all she could do not to fall face down on it immediately.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay on the couch?” she asked, remorseful.

  “Positive. It opens up. When it’s pulled out both Kieran and I fit on it with room to spare. Actually, it would have been too big for you.”

  “I’ll bet. Thanks, Yank. You didn’t have to do this, but I appreciate it. I feel safe here with you.”

  Seconds later he took a couple of steps forward, reached out and cupped her cheek in his large palm.

  “I will keep you safe, Chelsea. And you will stay here for as long as necessary—even if I have to tie you to the bed.”

  She arched an eyebrow at the playful glint in his eyes. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. At least not until I know ye better.”

  He returned her smile. She felt he was about to withdraw before an instinct more powerful than his will made him lower his face to hers. The kiss was brief, but intense enough to make Chelsea’s ears ring. This was a dangerous situation for two adults, unless they were sure about what they wanted from each other. Chelsea was sure she wanted Evan, and if she knew anything about body language, he wanted her too. However, the timing couldn’t be worse. If they were to explore this attraction that simmered between them, she didn’t want anything else on her mind.

  He seemed to read her thoughts, because he let go of her gently with one last brush of his lips against hers.

&n
bsp; “Goodnight,” he whispered, then turned and walked out.

  “Goodnight.”

  She gazed at the closed door, breathing hard. Should she have asked him to share the bed, to stay with her? She wanted him to hold her so badly she ached. But she didn’t want to appear needy or scared. It was vital to her own self-esteem not to display this type of emotion. It was a paradox. She encouraged her patients to express their feelings, yet she didn’t always take her own advice. To her defense, there had been very few people in her life she could open up to. She didn’t have a husband, a life partner, not even a best friend to talk to. She was Doctor Campbell and had an image to uphold. People always expected her to be calm, composed, in control. No matter how loud she screamed inside her mind, she couldn’t show any weakness to the world. Would she be able to be herself with Evan? Could he want and accept her with all her flaws, fears, and traumas? He had issues of his own. That made him as human as her. Sometimes, two flawed individuals could make a hell of a team.

  Sitting on the bed, she took off her boots and set them in a corner by the door so she wouldn’t stumble over them. Slowly, she undressed, then dug out the black sweatpants and soft cotton shirt she’d brought to sleep in. In a crazy fantasy, she imagined Evan walking in, finding her naked, drawing her to him, and kissing her hungrily. Her skin craved his touch, his caress. She didn’t want him to be gentle, she wanted him to be real, strong, powerful, passionate, and direct. She wanted him to need her as much as she needed him.

  Blowing out a breath, she finished dressing. If that moment were to come, it definitely wouldn’t be tonight. Hell, she could hardly be a goddess in bed when she hadn’t showered since yesterday and needed fresh socks. As she lay in bed and pulled the duvet over her, she didn’t care. All she wanted was rest. If she couldn’t spend the night in Evan’s arms, she was content to wallow in his sheets, which still bore his scent—male, with a touch of fresh, crisp cologne. Reaching over, she drew the other pillow to her chest and rested her cheek against it. She started her usual relaxation technique to empty her mind, and was asleep before she knew it.

  Chelsea woke up disoriented, feeling absurdly well rested. The room was in semi-darkness, so it took her a few minutes to remember where she was and why. A wave of panic filled her, and she breathed deeply in an attempt to cope with it. Following the trail of weak light, she climbed out of bed and moved to the windows. She opened them widely, groaning when she saw the fog outside was thick enough to cut with a knife. Yawning, she squinted at her watch. It was 10:15. Eyes widening, she headed toward the door to see if Evan was awake.

  In the living room she found Kieran stretched out on the sofa, which was still open, a blanket and two decorative cushions tossed haphazardly over it. On the coffee table were a note and a pen. She walked and picked up the piece of paper.

  ‘I’m at the station. Shower, eat, make yourself at home. I’ll call you if there’s any breakthrough.

  Evan.’

  She plopped down on the sofa, still groggy, holding the note. She smiled down at it. Evan’s handwriting was just like the man himself—edgy, simple, no frills. Honestly, she was grateful he’d let her sleep late, but she hoped he’d gotten enough rest, too. Today was a big day. Every hour mattered.

  Putting the note on the table, she stood and returned to the bedroom. She dug in her bag for clean underwear and toiletries, then headed toward the bathroom. Since Kieran was quiet, she assumed Evan had already fed him.

  Steam hovered in the air when she opened the bathroom door. There was a fluffy beige rug on the black tiles, and the walls were covered in old-fashioned mosaic tiles that formed patterns of light to dark brown. Evan must have showered not long ago, because one of the blue towels was damp. Chelsea blushed as she imagined the soft cotton touching his naked body.

  She turned on the shower and started to undress. The sound of the running water was soothing, a monotonous patter that reassured her not everything about her routine had changed.

  As she stepped under the hot jet she moaned. Rarely did she appreciate the commodities of hot water the way she did right now. She used Evan’s shower gel, feeling strange as she rubbed the musky, masculine-scented lotion over her body. If time wasn’t so short, she would have washed her hair too, but she’d tied it up in a knot and kept it away from the water. It usually took her almost half an hour to dry, and that was a luxury she couldn’t afford now.

  How had Jack Dunhill spent the night? It was doubtful he’d had a hot shower or clean-scented towels. By now, Evan and John must have confiscated his car and brought it to Dublin. Probably Nóirín and her team were hard at work, analyzing every inch of the vehicle. What would they find? Was Jack Dunhill really the fierce killer they were searching for? And if so, why couldn’t she picture him as a cold-blooded murderer? He might be a sleazeball, a misogynist, maybe even a pervert, but a serial killer?

  Chelsea toweled off, carried away in a whirlpool of questions. Back in the bedroom, she donned yesterday’s jeans and a clean red sweater, then slid her feet into thick socks. She combed her hair with Evan’s comb and pulled it back into a ponytail. There was only one thing she needed now to clear her head: coffee.

  Evan had told her to make herself at home, so she went into the kitchen and searched the cupboards until she found a few mismatched mugs. She picked one and helped herself to the coffee that was still warm in the coffee maker. Kieran had come to keep her company and sat perched on one of the four chairs that surrounded the round table. Chelsea stroked his head and scratched his ears, then sat across from him, continuing to ruminate over the puzzle in her mind.

  If Jack Dunhill wasn’t the killer, where did that leave her? Who else could have developed an obsession with her? Or a grudge? She couldn't think of anyone who had ever hated her, or threatened her. She didn’t have many friends, but she could swear she didn’t have enemies either. Sure, she’d had some discontented patients over the years, but she’d always tried to pacify each one. In the end, even if the men or women chose to stop seeing her or switched to another therapist, Chelsea kept her interactions friendly with those who’d shared their most intimate thoughts with her.

  Hers wasn’t an easy job, but she’d certainly never considered it dangerous. So if it wasn’t someone from her professional life, was it someone she’d known on a personal level? An ex-boyfriend? Most of her relationships had been short lived, and she’d never seen any signs of malice or resentment from her lovers, even when she had been the one to end the relationship. She chose her men carefully, and she couldn’t imagine any of them being a killer. Wouldn’t she have sensed it? She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  Absently, she gulped down more coffee. Her mind kept spinning, analyzing, remembering. She relived her college days, mentally thumbed through her memories of every person she’d ever met, every acquaintance, every friend. They piled up as she traveled back in time, filing away the information. No one triggered a red flag. She’d had to deal with a couple of bullies in primary school, but nothing serious. Besides, they had left her in peace after her mother’s suicide. Everyone had treated her with maddening compassion, so she was actually thrilled when she and her father had moved away, and she’d changed schools.

  High school, on the other hand, had been great. She fondly remembered it as possibly the best period of her life. She’d made friends, she’d been popular, she had met her first boyfriend—who later became her first lover. Everyone liked her…

  She froze, the mug halfway to her mouth. Narrowing her eyes, she recalled a girl with witchy green eyes and a pixie haircut. There had been one person who didn’t like Chelsea. But to be fair, Aideen O’Banion hadn’t liked anybody. She was a tactless, selfish girl who came from a dysfunctional family. Her overbearing mother, submissive father, and eccentric sister hadn’t been the best examples. Aideen had grown up a loner whose self-defense mechanism was hiding her insecurities by feigning a colossal opinion of herself. She and Chelsea had been friends for a brief time, until Chelsea real
ized Aideen was not someone who could truly understand the meaning of friendship. A pathological liar, she was manipulative and jealous of everyone. Later, when she’d started studying psychology, Chelsea understood Aideen was a classic example of ‘a toxic person’, forever badmouthing someone, never happy, never contented. And although Chelsea thought they were too young back then to experience hate, when she’d distanced herself from Aideen she felt the other girl had truly started to hate her.

  “No. It couldn’t possibly be…”

  She shook her head, then gave a short laugh. What was she thinking? She hadn’t seen or talked to Aideen in more than fifteen years. Surely if the girl—woman by now—wanted to harm Chelsea, she wouldn’t have waited a decade and a half. Besides, she couldn’t possibly have the computer know-how to do all of the things this killer did. Chelsea remembered Aideen could barely switch on a computer, let alone be tech-savvy. Although people changed in fifteen years, developed new skills…

  Feeling ridiculous and paranoid, Chelsea drained her coffee cup and washed it in the sink, then walked to the living room. Curious, Kieran followed her. She sat on the couch and switched on her laptop. She wanted to check her emails quickly before she left for the station, in case an emergency had come up.

  There was nothing from her patients, just a couple of newsletters from psychology websites she was subscribed to, and an email from the same American publication that had sent her the news about Evan and his Robin Hoods capture. She frowned, wondering how her email address had gotten on the list of subscribers to this publication, since she never visited their website. She was about to report the email as spam, but reading the title stopped her in her tracks.

  EX-BLACK HAT HACKER TURNS FBI AGENT.

  As she opened the email, the subtitle hit her in bold letters: The Federal Bureau recruit their staff from among jailbirds. After the Robin Hoods scandal was unveiled, the press learned that Special Agent Evan Gallagher was in fact arrested for gaining illegal access to private FBI files when he was seventeen.”