ONE SILENT NIGHT

by Debra Cowan

  "You mean a flight attendant?" Dallas turned.

  Her friend shrugged. "Or someone who's out of town at regular intervals."

  "You mean like salesmen." Sam straightened, his gaze sharpening on Carrie.

  "Or truck drivers," Dallas added.

  Sam nodded, anticipation pumping through him as he made more notes. "Excellent idea, Carrie."

  She smiled. "I hope it helps." She glanced at Dallas. "I'm going to the grocery store, then to do some other errands. I'll be back later. Good luck."

  Dallas nodded.

  Carrie walked out, leaving them alone. Suddenly Sam was aware of the solitude, the fresh pine aroma of the tree, the body-warmed scent of Dallas. He shifted on the couch, searching for a more comfortable position, forcing his attention to the file.

  Dallas shifted beside him, reaching over to study the crime-scene photos spread out on the table. "What do they have in common? They all liked country-western music. They were all seen in a bar the night they died. Everything goes back to the bars," she mused. "But none of them have been at the same one."

  She glanced at him, firelight brushing one side of her face. "Is it the bar or the music?"

  He shook his head, watching her carefully. She had beautiful skin, creamy and smooth and soft. Perfect lips—not too full, not too thin; determined, tempting.

  "Did every bar have a live band? Maybe the same band played at these bars. Maybe that's the link."

  "You're right." Mentally shaking himself, he turned his attention back to the case. "It all comes back to these bars, but what's the connection? Is it that the killer likes certain bars? The women who frequent certain bars? The music? Hell, it could be the peanuts, for all we know." Frustrated, Sam raked a hand through his hair, wishing he weren't so conscious of the woman beside him.

  Again his gaze shifted to her long lean legs in the gray sweatpants, the white socks she wore, her rumpled hair. The whole picture made her look endearing. Deception if he'd ever seen it. She was danger with a capital D.

  They tossed around ideas as to what might stimulate the killer—hair color, body type, age. But none of the victims shared any of those traits. Dallas explored theories related to the calendar, to the holidays. He heard everything she said. He even nodded a couple of times or pointed out a problem. And he continued to stare at her as if he'd never seen a woman before.

  Annoyed with himself, he forced his attention back to the file, thumbing through the photographs until he came to a particular photo. "We need to look at the first homicide again. That's the key to the killer. Why her? What made him start?"

  "Also, back to the kinds of people who might visit bars regularly…" She paused, then snapped her fingers. "What about repairmen?"

  "They would work during the day unless it was an emergency."

  "They could come back at night."

  He shrugged. "We can check and see if any of these bars needed repairs."

  "They'll open around eleven or twelve today for the lunch crowd. I can start making calls. Maybe some of them also use the same distributor or the same driver. I'll check that when I check out the delivery schedules."

  "Good." He slid a picture across to her. "We've got outdoor pictures of all the bars. Let's try to find something they have in common."

  For long moments, there was only the pop of the fire, the slide of papers across the table. The scent of coffee hung rich in the air, mingled with the tree's outdoorsy smell. Dallas sat only inches away; he could feel her heat, the energy radiating from her. He stayed focused. Together they pored over the photos, searching, scrutinizing.

  "We're missing something," Sam said. "We've got to go back to square one." He pulled out the picture of the bar where the first victim, Hilary Poole, had been seen the night she died.

  In the daylight, the building that housed Calhoun's looked weathered, its red sign chipped and peeling. Part of the parking lot showed in the frame. To the left of the building lay a piece of the interstate and in the background a truck stop. Neither Sam nor Dallas found anything on the building's facade that showed on any of the others. None of the parking lots were similar.

  "Wait a minute." Dallas sounded breathless, excitement trembling in her voice.

  Involuntarily Sam's groin tightened and he cursed silently. "Truck drivers." She fanned through the photographs, snatching up one, then another. "Look, look."

  She picked them all up, her hand brushing his knee. He saw her jerk, saw her hand tremble, but she continued. She looked at one picture, then passed it to him as she looked at the next. "There's a truck stop near all these bars."

  Sam took the picture from her, ignoring the flash of heat as their fingers touched. "You're right." Anticipation hummed through him. "We might have something here."

  "A truck driver might have a schedule that would fit with the pattern."

  "Except for last night."

  Dallas shrugged. "Maybe he's gotten some time off. For Christmas or something."

  "Could be." He grinned at her discovery, excited that they finally might have found something. "That was good, Dallas. Damn good."

  "Don't act so surprised." She smiled and wrinkled her nose at him, in that old, teasing way she used to.

  And it sent a knife-edged pain through his chest. "I wish Rock and I worked this well together. You and I make a good team."

  He wished he could stop thinking about what else they'd do great together. "I'll be back this afternoon and we can hit the bars, see if anyone can ID last night's victim."

  She nodded, her eyes bright with excitement. "We're getting somewhere, Sam."

  "Yeah." He gathered up the photos and his notes, shoved them all back into his file.

  She looked … eager. He understood the anticipation she felt, the exhilaration of maybe finally getting a break. He knew what it meant to her to find this killer. And yet he couldn't help wishing that she were here for a totally different reason.

  Feeling a tightness in his chest, he rose. So did she. His gaze scooted over her and this time she followed it to her breasts.

  She sucked in a quick breath. One arm went around her waist protectively, flattening her shirt against her. Through the fabric, he could see the faint outline of her nipples—rigid, pushing against the knit. He swallowed hard.

  His gaze moved to hers and for a moment, she stared at him. Hunger flickered in her eyes, then uncertainty. She looked away.

  So did he, staring blankly into his coffee cup, quashing the need that hooked into him with razor-sharp talons. "I'll get going."

  Dallas turned quickly and walked into the kitchen. But he saw the flush on her neck and knew from experience that her breasts were turning that same delicate rose. Hell! He walked into the kitchen behind her.

  She stood at the counter, pouring another cup of coffee, and he leaned toward the sink, careful to set his mug inside without touching her.

  She twitched nervously, her hands gripping the edge of the sink. "I'll make those calls."

  "I'll file my report." He stood there, ordering himself to move, but was entranced by the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat, the dark sweep of her lashes, the softly sculptured jaw.

  He had to get out of here or he was going to ignore every ounce of common sense he had and shove her against the wall, pump into her with all the frustration and knife-edged desire crashing through him.

  He'd fantasized for months about her trying to seduce him and him rejecting her. Now he didn't want to reject her. He just wanted. Being with Dallas would solve nothing. In fact, it would screw up a whole lot. His mind knew it without a doubt, but that didn't stop his body from going hard at the memory of last night's kiss; didn't stop him from wanting another one. And more.

  He cleared his throat and pivoted, walking out of the kitchen and grabbing up his coat from the chair in the living room.

  She followed slowly, halting a safe distance away in the doorway of the other room, watching him with that old guardedness in her eyes.

  He hated
that. He was tired of the walls between them; of the past, the regrets. She was getting to him, no doubt about it. He wanted some peace; he just wasn't sure how to get it.

  Lifting a hand in farewell, he moved to the door, then paused. He looked over his shoulder and his gaze met hers. "I'm glad you stayed."

  Surprise chased across her face and her mouth curved in a pleased smile.

  "See ya later." He grinned and felt a warmth spread through him even as he stepped into the winter air.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  "We've got a suspect." Later that night, Sam's excitement mirrored her own as they walked out of Bubba's, the last bar of their sweep. Not only had the bartender remembered last night's victim, Leslie Finch, but he'd also given them their first real lead on the killer. "We've finally got a suspect. We're gonna nail this SOB, Dallas."

  Unexpectedly, he grabbed her hand and twirled her.

  She laughed, anticipation speeding through her. "White male, five foot eleven, about one hundred sixty pounds, brown hair. No beard, no mustache—at least last night."

  "Tattoo on his right hand. Paying with a hundred will make any bartender remember you. That's gonna help." As Sam lightly hooked an arm around her waist, his other hand grasped hers and he shuffled her in a backward two-step. "And a small-link chain holding his wallet to his belt loop. Yee-haw!"

  He was laughing in earnest now, when Dallas's hip gently bumped his as he boot-scooted toward her. Immediately his smile faded. So did hers. Need quivered through her.

  His hands fell away from her. Sidestepping her neatly, he walked across the parking lot toward his truck, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. Swallowing her inexplicable disappointment, Dallas picked up her pace to match his.

  Clouds obscured the moon and flood lamps shot a ghostly yellow light into the darkness. The chill night air was dense and still. Their footsteps clicked on the pavement.

  "It's too late now," Sam said, "but first thing in the morning, I'll run this guy through Crime Analysis. See if we can find any Field Interview cards on him."

  Dallas nodded. "Several people in the bar knew this girl, Leslie. Someone saw him. We just have to find out who."

  He opened the passenger-side door and stepped away, with no hint of the earlier sparkle in his eyes. "You did a great job in there interviewing people while I spoke to the bartender. Dinky Malone. What a name, huh?"

  She climbed inside, closed her door and leaned across to unlock his as he walked around. "I talked to one woman who knew Leslie Finch was a regular here," she said as Sam slid inside. "She confirmed that Leslie was with a brown-haired guy at the bar, but she never saw his face, only his back."

  "The bartender said she picked up guys every once in a while—not on a regular basis." Sam started the truck, then pulled off his gloves and dropped them onto the seat between him and Dallas. "Too bad she couldn't have picked someone different."

  Dallas's sadness over the woman's murder was equaled by the growing anger she had at the psycho who'd killed her. None of their earlier hunches about distributors, drivers or repairmen had panned out. She flipped open her notebook and leaned closer to the window, using light from the parking lot to read. "I think we spoke to all the regulars."

  "Yeah, and tomorrow we'll canvas the victim's neighborhood. I'll take one side of the street, you take the other."

  She nodded, snapping her notebook shut and scanning the parking lot. Her nerves were on fire with anticipation. She felt more alive than she had since … well, since that kiss with Sam. She ducked the memory, her gaze coming to rest on a sign across the highway. Her eyes widened. "Look, Sam! There's a track stop, just like by the other bars."

  He followed the direction of her gaze, then opened his door, stepped out and snapped a Polaroid. Cold air swirled in his wake and he quickly got back inside. "These truck stops keep turning up. What do they mean?"

  Dallas shook her head. "But we'll find out."

  "Yeah, and we've got to do it before this slimeball kills again." Sam's voice was tense and fatigued, but underscored with steely determination. And there was a new buoyancy there, a hope. "Oh!" He snapped his fingers, picking up his cell phone. "I'd better call Lieutenant Roberts." He punched in the number, then settled back against the seat. "Hey, boss."

  As Sam told his lieutenant what they'd found, Dallas looked out the window, a nervous excitement riding her. Finally they were making progress. It wouldn't be long now before they found Valeria's killer. Before Dallas would have to leave.

  Sam spoke quietly to his superior. A gradual heat spread through the truck as it idled. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flicker of lights and looked over to see a Christmas wreath on the bar's door come alive with a multicolored twinkle. Rubbing the knot in her right shoulder, she smiled as more lights came on, outlining the building's roof, where a miniature Santa appeared.

  She studied the night. The whoosh of passing cars sounded around the deep timbre of Sam's voice. There was still no sign of the moon, and clouds splotched the sky like great ink blots.

  He hung up. "The lieutenant says our secretary's got the flu now. I guess it's only a matter of time before I do."

  "Maybe not. You've been away from most of the ones who've come down sick," Dallas murmured, her gaze riveted on the Christmas lights. They pulsed with blurry cheer. Welcoming, homey, reminding her of the times when she used to decorate for the holidays. She hadn't done it since Brad's death.

  "Holidays are hard." Sam spoke quietly beside her, startling her.

  She glanced over, saw him staring pensively over her shoulder. They had to be hard on him, too. She nodded as an ache bloomed in her chest. "Last year was worse."

  "Yeah." He rubbed his face. "Seems like I miss him more on holidays. Do you?"

  Did she? It sometimes seemed she missed Brad so deep inside that she couldn't tell one day from another. When she spoke, her voice was rusty, hoarse. "It's usually the little things, like not talking to him across our morning coffee or not having to hunt down the toothpaste cap." She gave a short laugh. "Stupid, huh?"

  For a long time he didn't speak, just stared hard out the window as if he hadn't even heard her. Then his gaze swerved to hers, agonized, compassionate, understanding. "I don't think it's stupid at all. Sometimes, just reaching into my locker at work makes me think of him. Sometimes when I hear the click of a gun, I think of him. And sometimes—" He broke off, his jaw suddenly clenching. "Sometimes, just the empty space at my back makes me think of him."

  Tears burned Dallas's eyes. "Yeah," she whispered, looking quickly out the window.

  "Do you ever regret not having children?"

  She winced. As usual, Sam could pierce straight to the heart of her. It didn't matter if it was guilt over the night they'd spent together or something she'd never even talked about like this.

  "Sorry. I'm an idiot—"

  "It's all right." She smiled, though she felt like crying. "He wanted kids. He probably told you that."

  "He mentioned it."

  "I didn't want them. I wasn't ready. I told him we'd talk about it in another year. Then another. But we didn't." Her voice faded to a whisper. "We won't."

  Sam's hand fisted on his thigh. She wished he would touch her. "It wasn't that I thought he might be killed on duty or anything like that. I simply didn't want children. Why wouldn't—" Her voice cracked. "Why wouldn't I want his children?"

  "Hey," Sam said softly, his hand covering hers. "He didn't blame you."

  Dallas stared down at Sam's big hand over hers. His fingers were cold, but she could feel the warming of his palm through her glove. "I know what it feels like to fail him, Sam," she said fiercely. "You never did. Not when he was alive. And not when he died."

  Sam stiffened, but she tightened her hand in his, her gaze searching his blue eyes. "You didn't. It was me. I failed him. I failed Valeria. I ran when I'd never run from anything in my life. I think he was always disappointed in me because we n
ever had children."

  "He never told me he was anxious about kids. And he never said anything about being disappointed in you. How could he be?"

  Sam looked genuinely puzzled. She searched his face, aching to believe him; reading the sincerity, the surprised compassion in his eyes. "I've felt guilty about that ever since he died. I could've given him a part of us. I could've had a part of him now."

  "Yeah, well, maybe that's why you have me. I'm like your psychic link." As soon as he breezily said the words, an awkward tension filled the air.

  He added quickly, hoarsely, "You were right. Not to have kids, I mean. Things happen for a reason. It's best the two of you didn't have children. You spared a child the horrible grief of losing a parent. You have to look at it that way."

  "I didn't do it out of any noble motive," she said with self-derision.

  "It doesn't matter. What matters is that he didn't blame you, Dallas. He never once said anything about you not wanting kids, just that it wasn't time yet."

  "Really?"

  Hope lit her eyes and Sam's chest constricted. How easy it had been to give her this. He nodded, gently disengaging his hand from hers. "Really." He gave a short laugh. "Brad would shoot both of us if he heard this conversation. You know his motto, 'Say you're sorry and—'"

  "'Move on,'" Dallas quoted, her hand itching to retake Sam's.

  For one brief instant, she wondered if in some weird cosmic way, Brad had left Sam to her. If so, she'd ruined things. Once upon a time, she might have believed that Brad was the only source of the connection she felt with Sam. But things were different now.

  There was something else there; something independent of her husband, his partner. "Sam, I want you to know…" She faltered, trying to gather the courage to say what it was time to say; to build a bridge. "What I feel for you has nothing to do with Brad. It's true we became friends because of him, but we have our own history now."

  "Yeah. For good or bad." The pain in his voice tore at her. She wondered if she'd regret this later, but for now she was compelled to reach out and curl her hand around his forearm. He looked at her, surprised and wary. "It's not all bad, is it?"