by Jo Davis
Austin shook himself back to the present. After insisting on accompanying him to the scene to meet up with Forensics, Laura had fallen silent. Austin didn’t want her anywhere near the killer’s handiwork, couldn’t stand the thought of evil brushing against her. But this was her job, and nobody did it better. They had no room for mistakes.
Danny met them at the entrance to the alley, and they went in together. Austin tried to block the scattered images of the last time his footsteps had made a walk like this. And failed.
Sweat rolled between his shoulder blades, down the side of his face. You’ve seen dead women before. This one’s no different.
Before they entered the room, Danny briefed him. “Our officer who responded said city workers showed up behind the Waterin’ Hole to empty the garbage. Found her body stashed beside the Dumpster. I won’t lie to you. This could be rough.”
“Why?”
“She was strangled.”
His gut churned. “I can handle it.”
Laura cut a curious look at him as Danny clapped him on the shoulder. Austin approached first. The sharp tang of garbage mingled with the foul stench of death assailed his nostrils. Cool air whispered over his damp skin, causing him to shiver. Or maybe it was the awful reminder that, in the end, no one escapes this fate. Such a stark, impersonal tomb. A cold, undignified period at the end of lives once filled with sorrow, joy, hope.
Like Ashley and his baby. Why?
He and Danny flashed their shields at the officer who’d been awaiting their arrival. Satisfied, the guy indicated the body draped with a sheet.
“Some bastard really did a number on the poor girl,” he said in disgust. “Ready?”
Danny nodded. “Go ahead.”
The cop pulled back the sheet and Austin recognized her immediately.
“Yeah, that’s the girl from the club. Stacy.” His voice wavered.
“Jesus,” Danny muttered.
Long blond hair, low-cut black dress, generous breasts. His gaze slid to her hands. Bloodred fingernails that had been curled around her wineglass. Her neck . . .
A deep purple line bisected the creamy softness of her throat just under the jawbone. She’d clawed her neck. Fought for her life.
Oh God. Her mottled face became Ashley’s. Then the face morphed into Laura’s striking, angular features surrounded by long dark hair. He began to shake. The ground rocked under his feet and he clutched his roiling stomach.
“Austin, are you okay?” Laura cried.
Danny grabbed his arm. “Easy, buddy. Need to step away?”
“Yeah.”
The unruffled assistant jerked a thumb. “The back door to the club is open at the moment. Men’s restroom is down the hall on the left.”
Austin staggered inside and down the corridor, burst into the restroom. He stumbled into a stall, sank to his knees, barely making the toilet before his stomach rejected its contents. Hugging the rim, he coughed and gagged, unable to dispel the horrid mirage of Laura’s face superimposed over Stacy Mead’s.
How long he knelt there trembling, he wasn’t sure. Long enough for the tread of hesitant footsteps on cold tile. Danny’s steady voice, rife with worry.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Just give me another minute,” Austin rasped.
“You’ve got it.” But he didn’t leave.
Finally, Austin stood on rubbery knees, flushed the toilet, and wobbled to the sink. He splashed water on his face, rinsed the foulness from his mouth. Danny came to stand beside him, lending strength in his quiet way.
“I’ve never lost anyone as close to me as you have,” his friend said at last. “But I know about loss. I understand what it means to have your heart ripped out, and to learn the past won’t stay buried. I’m here for you now, whatever you need.”
Austin glanced at him, blinking water from his eyes. At least he hoped the moisture was water. “Thanks. And for the record, I’m falling for Laura.”
“You don’t say.” Danny crossed his arms. “Took you long enough to admit it.”
“Doesn’t matter. You saw what happened to Stacy Mead. A relationship is out of the question.” Saying that aloud caused a terrible ache in his chest.
“I agree, keeping an emotional distance from her is for the best, until your stalker is caught. But once this is over—” His friend shrugged, letting the statement hang.
“We’d kill each other inside of a week.” He didn’t really believe that, though.
“Fine. Be an idiot and lose a fantastic lady to a man who’ll treat her like a queen, the way she deserves. Because I’m warning you, if you fuck around with Laura’s feelings and she ends up hurt, I’ll whack off your balls.”
Austin winced. “Jesus. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I always have been, my friend.” He squeezed Austin’s shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
With pleasure. His exhausted brain couldn’t handle another nasty shock. They’d pummeled him for hours, one after another, until his insides felt bruised and bleeding.
Only burying himself in Laura’s heated kiss had soothed the pain.
But once more, the gods had played a cruel joke on him. Laura Eden was a sweet, magical elixir he couldn’t afford to sip.
And Laura’s life was a price he’d never pay.
• • •
Austin’s official statement from the Sugarland PD announcing the serial murders aired at five o’clock. At his insistence, an unhappy Laura stayed at the station, but not before putting up a fuss. Austin refused to argue the matter.
The cameraman zoomed in for a close-up of Austin standing on the steps of the police department building. Austin relayed only the most basic facts to the public. No frills.
The killer, a male, had lured a man named Matt Blankenship from a local bar, followed him home, and murdered him. Evidence also had tied him to the murder of a local pregnant woman, whom Austin admitted was his own wife. His voice wavered, and he bitterly wondered whether sympathetic viewers would go easier on the police.
All men and women should exercise good common sense. Don’t pick up strangers. Guard your beverages carefully; never leave them unattended. Use the buddy system—make sure your friends know when you leave and who you’re with. He’d have more updates as the case developed.
Stacy Mead’s murder and her connection to the case were kept under wraps. Austin wanted the caller, the man he believed to be the killer, to admit to the murder. Plus, the police always kept some details from the press and general public that only the killer would know.
Afterward, he called Danny, asked if he’d follow Laura home from work and see her safely inside her condo.
“Me?” his friend asked in surprise. “You don’t want to do it?”
“No.”
“Ah, okay. Remember what I said?”
“Yeah, I remember,” he snapped.
Danny agreed to the favor with no further questioning. Austin knew his smitten partner wouldn’t waste a second asking Laura to dinner. And she’d accept.
“Goddammit.” A shitty end to a crazy roller coaster of a day.
Exhausted and strung out, Austin headed home a little early. Normally, he enjoyed the peace and solitude of the drive. Loved the power of the big truck wrapped around him, Aerosmith pumping from the stereo. Today, the loud music only added to the static in his head, and he shut it off.
Once home, he trudged inside, up the stairs. In his bedroom, the boots came off first, followed by the rest of his clothing. Naked, he flopped onto the bed, thinking he should take a quick shower, get something to eat.
Then the day caught up with him, and he fell headfirst into the welcome abyss that swallowed him whole.
Chest heaving, he wept beside Ashley’s casket, two of his detectives holding him upright.
I’m so sorry. For you, our baby. Oh God, no no.
Tears of bitter grief streamed down his face. Sorrow wrapped his body in chains, sank him to the depths of the ocean. He longed to suck the water into his lungs, let the darkness drown him. Only one thing stopped him.
She had fought for survival, for their child, with every ounce of her strength. He wouldn’t make a mockery of their lives by so easily giving up on his own.
He’d drag himself from the darkness, and when he did, he’d find the bastard who’d cut their lives short. Tear him apart, one limb at a time.
I’ll find him, he cried. I swear.
Austin awoke with a start, chest aching, throat burning. Tears dampened his cheeks, his hair. He rolled to his back, wiped an arm across his face. God, how long had it been since he’d had the nightmare? Weeks.
Shadows cloaked his bedroom. He’d slept straight through the afternoon and into the night, without setting the frigging security system. Jesus. Drawing a shaky breath, he rose, yanked on a pair of cutoff shorts, grabbed his gun, and made a sweep through the house, switching on lights as he went.
Nothing. Satisfied, he set the alarm and was heading through the living room when the phone rang.
His pulse did a funny leap. Calls this late never brought good news. Especially now. His false sense of safety vanished as he moved to the phone resting on the table by his favorite recliner. BLOCKED NUMBER.
“Shit.” He breathed. Either the killer had struck again or Austin’s appearance on the news had shaken his world. Or, God help him, both. His brilliant plan hadn’t included what he’d say to the bastard if he called again. Every muscle tense, he pressed record on the small black unit hooked to the phone, then picked up the receiver. “Rainey.”
“Stupid cop,” the man snapped. “What sort of game do you think you’re playing?”
Oh Christ. This conversation was going to be like creeping through a minefield. Blindfolded. The killer’s voice sharp as the sting of a blade at his throat.
“Playing games is your forte, asshole. Why don’t we end this? You think you’re so tough, let’s meet and you can take your best shot.”
Silence. He heard rapid breathing, pictured him trying to assimilate the curveball he’d thrown, force his words into his narrow perception of reality. And he hoped to hell the guys had time to trace the call. But he doubted the killer would be so careless.
“Like I said, stupid,” the caller hissed. “Dumb as that blond bitch who came on to you the other night. Told you she learned, didn’t I?”
Stacy Mead. Not exactly a confession, but close enough to remove any lingering doubts.
His blood chilled. Did the bastard understand that he’d committed murder but honestly have no remorse? If so, he wasn’t dealing with a psychopath, but a true sociopath. An individual capable of distinguishing right from wrong, fantasy from reality, but possessing no conscience. The real deal.
“There’s no need to involve anyone else in this. I’ll be at the Waterin’ Hole tomorrow night, waiting for you. You want me, come and get me.”
The man laughed. “Tempting. Maybe I’ll show, maybe I won’t. You’ll just have to be surprised. And come alone.”
“I’ll be there.” Damn.
“Sweet dreams, Captain.” The caller hung up.
Austin dropped heavily into the recliner, replacing the receiver in its cradle. Less than ten seconds later, it rang again.
“Rainey.”
“Not enough time, man. We almost had the fucker.”
“I figured as much. Thanks anyway, Jamie.” Austin sighed.
“You bet. We’ll nail this guy—don’t worry.”
Hanging up, Austin clasped his trembling hands. Christ, what had he done? Made a date with a killer. Yep, that ranked high on the list of Top Ten Dumb-Ass Stunts Austin Has Pulled. Funny thing was, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a rat’s ass whether one of those stunts got him killed or not. Until recently.
Until a dark-eyed beauty got under his skin, shook his dull, colorless existence, and roused him back to life. Along with his raging desire.
But he wouldn’t let her into his heart. He’d given that part of himself once, only to have it ripped beating from his chest and handed back to him on a platter. He’d never survive the agony again.
A bullet to the brain would be quicker, and much kinder.
• • •
“You’ve lost your fucking mind,” Danny grumbled. “Too many things can go south. What if we can’t get to you in time?”
The possibility scared the hell out of Austin. God, he was so tired. Two nights virtually without sleep had left him feeling like he’d been run over and backed over again for good measure. He leaned back in his chair, waving off Danny’s worry with a show of false bravado.
“You and Shane will be parked only one block from the club. I’ll be wired and fitted with a tracking device. Nothing will go wrong.”
“If he realizes that we’re there, one block is too damn far away.”
Austin slapped the files spread across his desk. “What else do you suggest? That I hide while he traps another poor, unsuspecting victim and hacks him or her to pieces? Forget it.”
“Better him than you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“No, but I hate this.”
Austin heard the defeat in Danny’s surly tone. He’d go along with the plan, but he’d hate every second. Well, that makes two of us, my friend.
Austin turned his attention to the Blankenship file, burning to know whether his friend had asked Laura to dinner. Danny hadn’t brought it up, and Austin didn’t want to seem as though he gave a shit. Which he did, especially with the memory of Laura’s hot, sweet mouth responding to his. Electrifying his starved senses.
Son of a bitch.
Danny pulled a folding chair close to Austin’s desk and sat so they could review the file again, nodding to a photo of Blankenship’s nude body, peppered with stab wounds. “Hell of a price to pay. Jesus, his parents.”
“Yeah.” The scene had been bad. The worst. Betty Blankenship’s screams haunted every waking moment. They’d torment him for months, until they faded enough for him to seal them in that tight compartment reserved for awful things best forgotten.
“No parent should have to learn their child has been murdered, much less how this guy died.”
“Damn,” Danny muttered. “I’ve wondered if his closest coworkers knew about his bisexuality, or if he kept that part of his life totally private except for lifelong friends like Rick Yates.”
“Probably irrelevant, but it won’t hurt to check.”
“I’ll do some more poking around. What company did he work for again?”
Austin flipped through the report, scanning. “Here. Dynamic Media Creations in Nashville, near the new movie studio.”
“That’s quite a trek from his apartment in Sugarland,” Danny observed thoughtfully. “Plenty enough distance to keep his nightlife separate from his job.”
His job. Blankenship had worked as a graphic artist. Austin was struck by the detail. He’d heard that term recently, in connection to someone besides Blankenship. But to whom?
The memory returned full force, and he stiffened. Frankie Blair.
Danny stretched his long legs out in front of him, arching a brow. “What is it?”
“God, I must be losing it.” He raked a hand through his hair in annoyance. “I ran into my cable guy, Frankie Blair, in the Waterin’ Hole the night Stacy Mead was murdered. Blair said he’s in college to become a graphic artist. Graduates at the end of May.”
“So?”
“He claims he has a line on a job from a ‘friend of a friend.’”
“And you think maybe that was Blankenship? Pretty big coincidence.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I intend to find out.”
<
br /> “Think he’ll level with you?”
“Yeah,” Austin mused. “Actually, I do. Think I’ll leave him a message at work, maybe drop by his place later for a chat.”
“I’ll go with you, after I’ve paid a visit to Dynamic Media.”
Austin nodded absently, instincts humming. Danny, sharp as he was, had a lot to learn. Coincidences didn’t exist in this job. Ever. A few days earlier, Austin had never met a graphic artist. Now he’d run across two in a very short time span. A fluke? Not frigging likely.
“I’ve got the ME’s report on Blankenship,” Shane announced, brandishing a file as he strode toward them at a brisk pace.
Austin tensed and Danny straightened in his chair. Hurt went through him that Shane had received the file and not him, that Laura hadn’t even called, but he told himself it didn’t matter. Their normally cool, composed detective vibrated with excitement.
Shane plunked the file on Austin’s desk without ceremony. “You’re not gonna believe this shit. There wasn’t a lot of forensic evidence at the scene, but what Laura found—” He tapped the folder. “Look for yourselves.”
Austin opened the folder, peering down at the report. Danny scooted close, following the text with his finger.
“One strand of black hair, thirteen inches in length, collected from the abdomen,” the lieutenant read aloud. “A trace of Rohypnol found in the victim’s bloodstream—no surprise there—but no evidence of sex. The black hair was synthetic. A wig, then.”
“Austin,” Danny whispered. “The report says it matches a strand of long black synthetic hair wound in the belt around Ashley’s neck.”
Austin stared at the damning words, felt the blood drain from his face. None of them had seen this one coming, not in their worst nightmares.
“Oh my God.” He closed his eyes, feeling sick. “The killer was wearing a disguise.”
“He’s changing his appearance, possibly to look less threatening as a woman,” Danny pointed out. “If we proceed with your fishing expedition tonight, the dragnet around you has to be tightened. No room for a clusterfuck.”
Danny shook his head. “This is ten kinds of fucked up. It feels wrong and I think we should call it off.”
