by Julie Miller
And then she heard it.
Beth’s eyes popped open.
Any pretense of serenity ended with the scratchy tap of something against the house outside. She sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. Was there someone in her backyard again? A man running his fingers along the siding and window sills, looking for a way to get in?
It took a few seconds more for her rational mind to convince her racing heart that the sound was nothing more sinister than the wind whipping the plastic tarp Officer Taylor had tacked over her French doors to help keep the heat inside her house.
“He won’t be back to finish anything tonight, Beth.”
Beth glanced at the curtains, imagining the darkness outside her bedroom window, the white bungalow just beyond and the man inside. She wished Kevin Grove’s promise was as easy to believe now that she was all alone as it had been when he’d been holding her hand.
After tuning her radio to a country music station to drown out the wind and her imagination, Beth tucked the KCPD card and her cell phone beneath her pillow. The faintest of electronic feedback noise whirred through the background of the first two cowboy tunes, grinding at her peace of mind like some kind of subliminal taunt.
“I believe you,” she whispered, reaching back to shut off the disquieting music. The danger was over. She’d be all right.
Instead of stretching up to turn off the lamp, as well, she rolled onto her side. She pulled the extra pillow against her stomach and curled up into a ball around it, pretending sleep would come as easily tonight as it had every other night of her life.
SHE WAS SLEEPING with the lights on.
Kevin sat in the darkness of his upstairs bedroom, absently stroking the patchy fur of the big dog snoring on the bed beside him. Daisy’s brindle hide was surprisingly smooth, despite the bald patches where medicine and the dedicated staff at the rescue shelter clinic had finally healed her skin. But it was nowhere near as soft or cool to the touch as Beth Rogers’s skin had been.
What had that been about in her living room tonight? Bantering clever words? Making promises? Touching her?
If Sheila Mercer hadn’t opened his eyes to just how stupid it was for him to care about someone, would he have tugged on Beth’s hand and pulled her into his arms? He’d wanted to. She wasn’t part of the plan he’d made for his life, wasn’t a case he’d been assigned to, wasn’t someone he should be worried about even now—yet every male cell in him had wanted to wrap his body around hers and chase the fear from those muted blue eyes.
He had his own investigations to deal with, notes he should be reviewing before the morning’s shift briefing. It wasn’t his place to watch her house from his bedroom window, to make sure the shadows moving in the night could all be identified and dismissed. He watched a Christmas banner, caught by the wind, tumble through her backyard to tangle in his fence. A rabbit scurried from one hidey-hole to the next. But nothing human. Nothing dangerous.
Traitorous hormones weren’t the only thing keeping him awake at 5:42 a.m., however.
There was something about that whole crime scene that nagged at him—something he couldn’t yet put his finger on. While simply beating up a woman for the hell of it wasn’t unheard of in his line of work, fifteen years of investigative experience told him there had to be a reason either for the break-in or the attack. But there’d been no evidence for either. What did a twenty-five-year-old country girl in the big city possess that was worth the risk of accidentally killing her? Why throw such a scare into her? Who in her life might want to hurt her?
Or was he falling into the same trap all over again—seeing a threat where none existed? Getting involved despite knowing what a lie and a pretty face could cost him?
Daisy grumbled in her sleep and stretched out, pushing her weight against Kevin’s leg. He pulled his fingers from her fur and let at least one of them relax.
“We’re two of a kind, aren’t we, Daisy girl?” Kevin peeled off the sweater he still wore and tossed it into the darkness beyond the foot of the bed. He pulled the chain from around his neck and placed his badge next to the holstered Glock on his nightstand. “Big, ugly sons of guns with no sense of who or what we should care about.”
Daisy’s former owner had chained her in the backyard and left her to starve and become riddled with a skin disease. Kevin had trusted his heart to a woman who’d seen him as an easy mark. By the time Sheila was done laughing at his declaration of love, jeopardizing his career at KCPD and suing him for harassment to cover her own misdeeds, Kevin had been ready to withdraw from all but his closest friends—and to write off pretty women who showed any interest in him entirely.
Yet here he was, keeping a lonely vigil over Beth Rogers.
Logic and experience told him to assign watchdog duty to someone else. It was the curse of his conscience that he couldn’t.
THE RECTANGULAR LAMP at the center of the table provided the only light in the luxuriously appointed room.
Some of the people here probably thought the lights were low to hide their gathering in the building at this time of night when most good folks were sleeping. Or that shadowed eyes and veiled faces made confrontation easier. One fool might think it was a kindness to hide the angry faces all eager to lash out at him.
He dimmed the lights because he wanted to. And these people needed to understand that what he wanted was more important than anyone else’s concerns. It was a subtle, yet effective, reminder that not only was he in charge here, but he was taking control of this untenable situation that had been thrust upon them.
The dark figure pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows was painfully aware of that fact. That’s why the meeting had been called, why he was pleading his case. “I’m an old man feeling my mortality, that’s all. I had an attack of conscience. Our research proves the drug is too risky. I had no idea the repercussions would be so…personal…for all of us.”
“So you’re saying you’re not behind the letters we all received?”
“No.” The old man opened up his briefcase and tossed a similarly addressed plain white envelope—no stamp, no postmark, no fingerprints or DNA to trace—on the table. “I got one, too. The demands are the same, I’m sure. We’re all being blackmailed.”
“No one is taking this company away from us. The drug works,” the man at the head of the table reminded him. “This shouldn’t even be an issue.”
“Yes, the drug works initially. But at what cost? I know you altered the results of the clinical trials so you could move it into production next year, despite my recommendation that the lab needed more time.”
The man at the head of the table savored a long swallow from his old-fashioned glass before patting his jacket and the unsigned letter he’d tucked into the breast pocket underneath. The ten-million-dollar demand wouldn’t bankrupt him, but if they couldn’t find their blackmailer and eliminate the problem, the threat of more and more demands eventually would.
Even if he wasn’t behind this scheme to extort money from each of them, the old man had set the wheels in motion with a very costly mistake of conscience. “And I know you made more than one copy of the original test results.”
The gray-haired man’s face blanched a deathly white. Ironic. Or perhaps a mere foreshadowing of events to come? “I’m a medical scientist. Of course, I’d keep all the research the lab produces.”
“And you didn’t think there’d be a problem with two sets of documentation?”
The old man had some fight in him yet. “Your greed is what created the problem. I just wanted to delay the project. Give my staff more time. With another year, maybe two, we could adjust the formula to reduce the side effects. My caution now could save us millions in lawsuits later.”
“We needed to move forward instead of dragging our feet.” He took another drink, letting the aged bourbon burn through his anger. “A two-month delay could cost us a rather generous paycheck. Two years? We’d be out of business.”
The woman to his left smacked her pal
m atop the table, demanding to be heard. “But someone out there still knows. Did you think about anybody else when you had this attack of conscience? Forget the money. We could go to jail if this gets out. For a very long time.”
A large man unfolded from the shadows and planted himself in front of the man who was pacing. “I should throw you out that window right now for being so reckless. An attack of conscience…” he muttered. “The people in this room were the only ones who know about that project. Now you’ve let the cat out of the bag and we’re paying for it.”
“At least I discovered the problem so we could do something about it before the authorities pick up our trail and shut us down. If it was left up to you, we never would have found out.”
There was that. The man running this clandestine meeting set his drink on the table with a deliberate crack of glass against wood, commanding the large man’s attention. He’d already handled one discreet job for him earlier tonight. “Are you prepared to do what needs to be done?”
“Give me the order.” My, he was eager to please.
The pacing man protested. “I’ll handle it.”
“How can I trust you? You made copies of incriminating evidence.” He traced his finger around the rim of the glass and touched the last drop of whiskey to his tongue, savoring the burning sensation. “I can do damage control. But I can’t handle a traitor in my midst.”
“Traitor? How could I? I’m in this, too. It was a stupid mistake. I see that now.”
“So you’ll help us cover our trail?”
Good God, the wind chill was below zero outside, and his old friend was sweating as he nodded agreement. “Give me one more chance. I’ll make this right.”
He surveyed the room for a consensus of shrugs and nods before making his own decision. “Very well. One more chance. But remember…there’s not one of us willing to pay for your failure.”
“I understand.”
“As long as we’re all clear on this. You make this go away.” He stood, buttoning his blazer as he looked down at the man who had every reason to be worried. “Or we will.”
Chapter Four
“Anything else for the good of the cause today?” KCPD’s Fourth Precinct Chief Mitch Taylor pulled off his reading glasses and set them on the podium at the front of the third-floor conference room. “Yeah, Banning?”
As he took a question from a table in the back, Kevin unzipped his work folder and tucked his copy of the morning briefing agenda inside. It was a typical Tuesday morning at Fourth Precinct headquarters—check in, grab coffee, wake up, eavesdrop on the latest gossip, sit down and listen to an overview of KCPD’s open cases and potential concerns around the Kansas City metro area. While different detectives took charge of different investigations, and uniforms patrolled the streets, it didn’t hurt to have all eyes open for a lead that might pop on someone else’s case. The morning briefing was about teamwork and focus…and grabbing a spare minute to scan the background check he’d run on Beth Rogers.
He flipped to the next page in his folder and read the brief report. Driver’s license. Car registration. Never married. Squeaky clean except for one parking ticket. Nothing before last night’s incident filed by her or against her.
As conversations broke out across the room, signaling the meeting was drawing to a close, Kevin turned to the next page, listing 9–1-1 calls to their street in the past few months. Two ambulance calls to one of those elderly neighbors Beth had mentioned. The only criminal complaint was a misdemeanor noise violation against her good buddy, Hank Whitaker—revving up his snowblower late at night while children were trying to sleep. He hadn’t responded to the neighbor’s phone call. Probably hadn’t heard anything at all if Beth’s description of the man was accurate.
Whatever had happened last night, it wasn’t about the humdrum suburban neighborhood. He was probably the scariest thing on the block.
When his new partner, Atticus Kincaid, pushed back his chair beside him, Kevin knew the meeting was over. He closed his folder, respectfully turning his attention to one of the few men in the room who could match him for size and stature.
Chief Taylor wrapped it up. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that the weatherman is predicting more snow this afternoon and into the evening. And ’tis the season for stress—only ten shopping days until Christmas.” That earned a few laughs and groans from the room. “Traffic and tempers could both be a little dicey today. Watch your backs out there. Dismissed.”
“Yo, amigo.” A. J. Rodriguez pulled away from the line of officers filing out of the room and sat on the front edge of the long table, crossing his arms over the shoulder holster he wore. A veteran detective like Kevin, he now spent a good deal of his time training and handling younger undercover officers. “I hear you were up late with my sister last night.”
The expected hoots and ribald comments from the men and women within earshot bounced off Kevin’s hide. Without missing a beat, he stood, towering over A.J. “She couldn’t wait to check me out, huh?”
“Called me first thing this morning. Emilia was worried about her patient—said she showed signs of a deliberate attack and suspected abuse.” A.J. was a hard man to read, but Kevin couldn’t sense any accusation in his mildly accented tone. “I said the bulldog was a good guy.”
“Thanks.”
A.J. rose as his partner, tall, blond Josh Taylor—the chief’s cousin—joined them with a typically wiseass grin. Now this guy could do some teasing. “I’m more interested in hearing about that sweet brunette. My nephew, Alex, said that minus the bruises and bandages, she’s a hottie. And probably damn lucky that you were there to help her.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Kevin straightened his tie, collected his mug of coffee and notebook and turned to leave. “Elisabeth Rogers lives next door to me. She was…injured in her home last night. I drove her to the E.R. End of story.”
“So you didn’t notice the big blue eyes and all the curves?”
Alex Taylor had?
A wildly inappropriate and alarmingly intense spike of protective jealousy almost made it to the tip of Kevin’s tongue. He channeled the raw emotion into a tight fist at his side. Beth Rogers wasn’t his. The Taylors were good people. Young, studly Alex Taylor was much more her type than he’d ever be. “She’s pretty.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” End of discussion.
“Well, that sucks for a happy ending,” Josh whined. “What’s a man got to do to get a story out of you? Did you talk? Ask her out?”
“I’m not here to entertain you, Taylor. You can do that all by yourself.” Kevin’s deadpan reply earned a round of laughs. By silent agreement, all four men joined the exodus out of the morning briefing and headed to their respective desks on the main floor.
While Kevin opened his folder and pulled some crime-scene photos from a lab report to add to his notes, Atticus settled in at the desk facing him. His partner sorted through a stack of phone messages, tossed them aside, then braced his elbows on the desktop and leaned forward. “So what’s the real scoop between you and the ‘sweet brunette’?” he pressed. “There’s more going on than what you told Josh and A.J.”
“What, like a relationship? I just met her.”
“Something happened. Did she turn you down?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Atticus’s pause lasted long enough that Kevin stopped his work and looked up. “But you do want to ask her out.”
Kevin shook his head, pretending those laser-sharp eyes weren’t seeing right through him. “I work with your family on one murder investigation, and suddenly you think you know me?”
“That murder was my father,” Atticus countered, not fooled for an instant. “My brothers and I owe you big time for seeing it through to the end and arresting his killer. You even took a bullet for us in the process. I think that qualifies you as family. So, as an adopted member of the Kincaid clan, I’m allowed to pester you on this.”
“That’s your logic
?”
“Flawless, isn’t it?” Kevin went back to work. Atticus let the subject rest for all of two seconds. “Now tell me about the ‘hottie.’ You said you’d sworn off women after the harassment investigation.”
“I was just helping the lady out. She’d sustained a concussion and had no business driving.”
“Right.” Atticus nodded toward the notebook on Kevin’s desk. “So why did you run a background check on her?”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?”
“My wife taught me an invaluable lesson about paying attention to details.”
“What’s it been now, six months?” Atticus had married Chief Taylor’s assistant, Brooke Hansford, after his father’s murder had brought them together. “How’s married life treating you?”
“Beautifully,” he stated, smiling at the wedding photo displayed proudly on his desk. “Brooke makes me feel like a very smart man for falling in love with her. But you’re changing the subject. What’s up with—” he rose slightly from his chair to read the name on the top of Kevin’s papers “—Elisabeth Rogers? She’s not on our case list, yet you’re investigating her.”
There was no arguing with the brains of this operation. Leaning forward, he mirrored Atticus’s position. “All right, so I’m a little concerned. Beth wasn’t injured in an accident. She was attacked, her home broken into. But I’ve got no motive—and no idea if the perp will try to hurt her again.”
Elisabeth had become Beth. Kevin’s tone grew hushed. Inside, he braced and waited. But Atticus could be counted on to be discreet if things sounded more personal than they should have.
“You heard the chief—the crazies are out this time of year.” Atticus threw out ideas the way they would with any of the crimes they dealt with. “What’s her family like? Could someone have an issue with them that they’re taking out on her?”
