Midnight Rider

by Joanna Wayne

  “You’re only a person of interest because I thought you might have information that could lead to finding Sylvie’s killer,” Brit insisted.

  “Regardless, you are not crossing the police line,” Bradford said. “Brit can go inside, but first we need to have a talk.”

  “About what?” Brit asked.

  “About what I’d hoped not to upset you with until you were feeling better. But since you’re here, you leave me no choice.”

  “Rick’s already told me that there’s lots of blood.”

  “That’s not the big problem.”

  “So what is?”

  “Your attacker had obviously been in your house for some time before you arrived home,” Bradford said. “He did some redecorating of your bedroom using your personal belongings and posters he’d brought with him.”

  “I’ve seen extremely grisly crime scenes before. I can handle it,” Brit insisted. “But I want to enter through the patio door just as my attacker did. It helps when I’m working a case.”

  Brit stamped off. Bradford turned back to Cannon. “You may as well come, too. I don’t know what it can hurt at this point and I may need you to help me carry her out of here and back to the hospital when the impact of this hits her. It made me nauseous when I saw it and I haven’t had a concussion.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “No. It’s worse.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brit entered the kitchen and groaned. “I don’t know if this will ever come clean. I don’t see how he walked away after losing this much blood.”

  “That’s what we all said,” Bradford agreed. “Have you seen enough for now?”

  “Not until I see what the bastard did to my bedroom.”

  Bradford followed her as she left the kitchen. Cannon stayed a few steps behind. He hurried to catch up when he heard a gasp followed by a shaky curse.

  When he saw what Brit was staring at, he rushed over and put an arm around her to steady her. He wasn’t sure if it was fury or revulsion that had her trembling. Both were appropriate.

  “That’s Sylvie in the pictures,” she said. “That’s Kimmie’s mother.”

  The images were so sickening that even Cannon’s stomach lurched and threatened to revolt. “What kind of deranged son of a bitch would do something like this?”

  “The maniac who killed Sylvie and tried to kill me.”

  Brit walked over and tore a life-size poster from the wall and ripped it in half. The poster was made from a black-and-white photo of Sylvie lying in an alleyway with her throat slit.

  A black lace pantie, apparently Brit’s, had been taped to the image. She bit her bottom lip so hard that her teeth left a temporary imprint.

  The other poster photos were merely different angles of Sylvie’s dead body. Other pieces of Brit’s lingerie had been shaped into evocative positions and scattered around the room, either near or attached to the posters.

  The bedcovers were pulled back. Cannon shuddered to even think what the assailant’s plans had been for this bedroom had he not been shot before he could drag Brit in here.

  If he could get hold of the pervert right now, Cannon was sure he could kill him with his bare hands. With any luck, he’d staggered outside and was lying facedown in the mud after a slow death.

  “My fault,” Brit stammered. “He said this was my fault. He must have been talking about Sylvie’s murder. He must have planned to kill both of us as some kind of payback killing.”

  “But payback for what?” Cannon asked. “You didn’t even know about Sylvie until she was murdered. How would he?”

  “If we knew that, we’d have our man,” Bradford said.

  “Where’s my weapon?” Brit asked. “I don’t have it or my cell phone and I’ll need them both.”

  “CSU turned them and your handbag in,” Bradford said. “They’re at the precinct. I’ll have an officer deliver them to you, once I know where you’ll be staying until the doctor tells me you’re ready to go back to work.”

  “I’ll be with Cannon.”

  Relief flooded his body. He wasn’t sure when the lines had crossed, but in his mind keeping Brit safe had become his priority, and finding the sick bastard who did this had become his responsibility. He wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure this man was dead or behind bars.

  Now he only had to convince her of that.

  * * *

  IMAGES FROM THE night before stalked Brit’s mind as they escaped the horrid scene and left through the front door of the house. Cannon’s hand was at the small of her back, instantly ready to pull her close if she lost her balance.

  She well could. The nausea and the headache had returned with a vengeance.

  She was haunted by flashes of strong hands jerking and twisting her arm behind her back. The pounding fist. The paralyzing pain as her skull banged against the wall. The deafening crack of gunfire.

  But what if the bullet had missed. Then he would have dragged her to the bedroom and waited on her to come to before he raped and killed her. That had undoubtedly been his plan all along.

  He wanted her to relive Sylvie’s death knowing that she would die the same way. He would have made sure Brit knew who was getting back at her and why. That was what made revenge killings worthwhile.

  But who with reason to seek revenge against Brit could have known she had a sister, when Brit hadn’t even known it?

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Bradford said.

  “I needed to see it,” Brit said. “I need to understand the nature of the maniacal pervert I’m dealing with and that he knew more about my biological family than I did. That could be key in identifying him.”

  “The CSU worked half the night collecting blood samples, shoe prints, fingerprints and any other evidence they considered useful,” Bradford said. “It shouldn’t take long to get an ID.”

  “Rick assured me they also checked all the local emergency rooms for a gunshot victim,” Brit said.

  “Every hospital within a hundred-and-fifty-mile radius.” Brit turned and looked back at the house. “How far was the CSU able to follow the blood trail?”

  “To the small man-made creek that runs in back of the town house complex,” Bradford said. “Apparently, even with the severe loss of blood, your assailant was still lucid enough to use the water to hide his tracks.”

  “But he may not have gotten far. Did they search the neighborhood, the bike path through the green area, the park?”

  “There’s still a team working on that. We’ll find who did it,” Bradford assured her. “Rick is lead detective on the case, but I’ve promised him as much manpower as I can spare.”

  “Rick is capable,” Brit agreed, “but I’m the one most affected by this case. Don’t you think I should have the lead detective position?”

  “Absolutely not. The doctor ordered bed rest. I expect you to follow those orders. I don’t want to see you at the precinct for at least a week.”

  “A week? You can’t expect me to do nothing on this case for a week.”

  “I expect you to follow orders. You’ve canceled every vacation you’ve scheduled for the past two years including the one you were supposed to start the morning Sylvie’s body was discovered. You’re long past due. Get some rest. Read a book. Watch movies. Take a cruise.”

  “I get seasick.”

  “Then don’t take a cruise, but you’re not coming back to work until I clear you. If you decide to stay in Houston, I can provide around-the-clock protection,” the captain offered.

  “I can protect myself.”

  The captain tilted her head and stared at Brit as if there was no reason to state the obvious.

  “I realize I let the man last night get the jump on me, but it won’t happen again. I can live with taking the rest of the day off if you insist, but a week is unthinkable.”

  “My decision stands. You can resume your investigation into your sister’s murder when you come back to work, but the attack on you is Rick’s case from he
re on out. End of discussion.”

  Brit could see there was no use to argue further. Keep pushing and Bradford might suspend her indefinitely instead of calling her forced noninvolvement a vacation.

  But just because she was officially off the case didn’t mean she couldn’t do some investigating on her own—under the radar.

  Now if she could just get rid of this annoying headache and clear the cobwebs from her mind, she could...

  “Ready to go?” Bradford asked.

  “I’m ready.”

  In fact, she couldn’t wait to get started. Her first order of business would be getting rid of Cannon, although he’d already proved himself to be a lot more responsible and levelheaded than she’d ever expected.

  Still, hanging out with her would only pull the hunky cowboy with the easy smile and hypnotic eyes into trouble. Not much chance she’d have to persuade him. He was no doubt already sorry he’d ever offered his help.

  But first she would take him up on the offer of his hotel room. The confusion, headache and urgency were taking their toll.

  Fatigue made mush of her muscles. The fog refused to lift completely from her brain. Her headache was becoming more intense.

  What she needed was a safe place to fall.

  Who’d have ever expected that to be Cannon Dalton’s hotel room?

  * * *

  THE HACKING COUGH started again, the blood in Clive’s throat strangling him. Pain racked his body as he turned his head enough that the blood dribbled from between his lips.

  It had been hours, maybe days, since the bullet bit into his stomach, tearing out tissue and muscle and leaving his insides exposed like a butchered calf. He’d lost track of time.

  The room was pitch-black, the air dank and fetid with the smell of death. His death, unless help arrived soon.

  Where was the dammed doctor? He should have been here by now.

  There was a rattling deep in Clive’s chest. He struggled to cough, but his throat closed tight. His lungs began to burn.

  He heard footsteps. The doctor was coming at last.

  Chapter Eight

  The hotel room was quiet except for the sounds of Brit’s rhythmic breathing. She’d changed out of her jeans for a more comfortable pair of workout shorts and then dropped to the bed and drifted into sleep within minutes after they’d arrived at the hotel.

  Thankfully, Cannon had splurged for a nicer hotel than usual. He’d figured he’d only be in town a night or two at the most and he was too sore to risk a bed that wouldn’t be kind to his strained and bruised muscles.

  Cannon took out his small laptop, turned it on and waited for the slow start-up on his aging machine. About the only thing he used it for was checking out rodeo schedules and results.

  Until he’d learned he might be a father, his life had been simple and uncomplicated. Chasing the dream from one rodeo to another. Hoping to avoid injury so that he could pick up enough points to be in serious contention for the big bucks and the national title.

  So far, no national title, but he couldn’t complain. He’d earned over $300,000 in prize money last year along with countless buckles and his new pickup truck. Most of the more expensive buckles he’d won were tucked away in a safe-deposit box in Austin. The cash was invested or residing in his savings account in the same bank.

  Another good year and he might just start looking for the ranch he planned to settle on when he had enough money saved to stock it.

  When that day came, he’d figured he might even find a woman to share the dream. Start a family. Settle down. In the meantime, he was careful to have no surprise packages like Kimmie to shatter the big picture.

  One night that he could barely remember may have destroyed it beyond repair. He couldn’t drag a baby from rodeo to rodeo. And he wasn’t about to dump Kimmie at the Dry Gulch Ranch the way he’d been dumped at his uncle’s ranch.

  Never wanted. Never liked.

  Cannon typed Sylvie Hamm into the search engine and waited to see what it coughed up. He checked out the possibilities. None appeared to match with the Sylvie Hamm who had given birth to Kimmie.

  He tried the online social connections and didn’t find her there, either. Not a major shock to him. He wasn’t on any of the other popular websites for touching base with people he didn’t care about, anyway.

  He clicked on the newspaper article that had apparently appeared in the Houston Chronicle the day after Sylvie’s death. It covered only spotty details about her murder, nothing as graphic as the enlarged photos taped to Brit’s walls. Photos taken by the killer himself, most likely shot with the intention of showing them to Brit before he killed her.

  The article did state that her body had been discovered in a back alley. He recognized the name of the cross streets. He and Brit had passed them last night on the way to Jodie’s Grill. The estimated time of death indicated she’d been killed in broad daylight. Her handbag and all of her identifications were missing.

  So Sylvie had been murdered in the vicinity of Brit’s office. He wondered if she lived or worked in the area herself. Or was it possible that she been on her way to see Brit?

  Could she have come that close to connecting with her twin sister after all these years only to be killed before they actually met?

  Cannon turned to stare at Brit and a crazy kick of awareness rocked his soul. There was no explaining the way the lady detective got to him. He’d always run from complications before. No one came with more complications than Brit and they were multiplying by the minute.

  Last night’s assailant wasn’t just using scare tactics. He’d murdered Sylvie as payback to Brit. There was no reason to doubt that as soon as he was physically able he’d be back to finish off Brit.

  The smartest thing Brit could do right now was accept her boss’s offer of 24/7 protection—or else get out of Houston and find a safe place to get some R & R. Come to think of it, getting out of Houston was an excellent idea.

  She had a week off. She could go anywhere.

  Unfortunately, he had a rodeo looming in a few days if his muscles healed enough to give him a fighting chance with the bull.

  There was a tap at the door to the hotel room. Cannon jumped to his feet and hurried over before the noise woke Brit. He looked out the peephole. Captain Carla Bradford was standing there with two handbags slung across her shoulder.

  Cannon opened the door, checked to make sure his key was in his pocket and then stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  “Brit’s sleeping,” he explained. “I hate to wake her unless this is an emergency.”

  “No, I just stopped by to give her this.” She handed him a black, leather handbag. “Her pistol is inside the zipped pocket. Be careful with it.”

  “I can handle a gun,” Cannon assured her. Fact was, he was licensed to carry and had a pistol in his truck. “I thought Brit said you were sending an officer by with that.”

  “I was coming this way.”

  He doubted that was the full story. The captain was too far up the totem pole to be running errands in Houston traffic.

  “Is there anything new in the investigation?” he asked.

  “Nothing of consequence.”

  “You mean nothing you can tell me?”

  “Nothing personal, Mr. Dalton. This is an active investigation and you are not an officer of the law.”

  “I’m an outsider. Got it. I’ll let Brit know you made a personal delivery of her possessions.”

  “How is she?”

  “She fell asleep right after we got to the hotel and hasn’t woken since.”

  “Good. She needs to rest, although I’m surprised it’s in your hotel room, considering the two of you only met for the first time last night. That was when you met, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I’m loyal and trustworthy, Captain Bradford. And as lovable as a teddy bear—unless someone gives me reason to get tough. Brit is safe with me.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about, Mr. Dalton. It’s a
man who’s on a death mission with her as the target. But since I’m here, I’d like to see for myself that she’s actually still with you and not out chasing her killer on her own.”

  “I thought you might.” Cannon took the hotel key from his pocket and pushed it into the lock. At the click he opened the door enough for the captain to peek inside.

  Brit had rolled over but was still sleeping, her shiny hair haloing the white pillow. The sheet curled around her, hitting just below her T-shirt clad breasts.

  “Satisfied?” he whispered.

  She nodded as he closed the door. “I don’t know how you got her to rest, but if you have any ideas about being a hero and saving her, forget it. You have no idea what you’re up against.”

  “I’m just the chauffeur. I have no intention of playing cop.”

  “Then we agree on something. Remind Brit I expect her to keep me posted if she leaves town—which I still think is the best decision at this time. Her would-be killer lost too much blood to go chasing her around the country in the next few days.”

  “I’ll give her the message.”

  By the time Cannon reentered the room, Brit was curled into the fetal position on the far side of the king-size bed, leaving most of the mattress free.

  Cannon took off his boots and stretched out on the bed beside her, fully clothed, on top of the covers. His mind wrestled with the situation.

  Brit had given in to a nap, but he knew this wouldn’t last. As soon as she felt steady on her feet she’d jump right back into the investigation—with or without Bradford’s permission. Worse to do it under the radar. That left her without other officers to watch her back.

  He agreed that the best decision would be for her to leave the Houston area. Somehow he didn’t see that happening—not unless the investigation led her somewhere else.

  Nor did he see her spending another day hanging out with him. Or ever seeing him again if she found out he wasn’t the biological father of her niece.

  Cannon didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke with a burning deep inside his gut. Brit had obviously tossed in her sleep and ended up cuddled against him. One of her arms stretched across his chest. Her bare left leg pushed between his thighs. Her disheveled hair brushed his chin.