by Jenna Ryan
Rudy watched him with a canny eye, the way he’d undoubtedly watched countless suspects in his time. Jacob knew what his ex-cop uncle was thinking, that his nephew’s need to find the Christmas Murderer bordered on obsession. Hell, it had probably crossed that line by a mile at this point. Posing as a cop? Was he crazy? Rudy’d gone ballistic when Jacob had approached him with the idea. He’d insisted it wouldn’t work. It couldn’t.
But it did, in large part because there were several similarities between him and Riker. Jacob had lived in Philadelphia for twelve years now, Riker for eleven. While Jacob had been born and raised in Chicago, Riker had been brought up in New York. Close enough to pass muster, particularly since Jacob had spent three post-college years in Manhattan.
Their mothers, both of Irish descent, had died when their children were young, and neither of their fathers had been on the scene since then.
The one divergent point was that unlike his cop counterpart, Jacob had never been married. Still, that subject should be easy enough to circumvent in a pinch.
Dipping his brush, Jacob wiped off the residue paint. No sidetracks, no complications, no regrets; he would go with his plan as outlined. Not Rudy nor conscience nor Devon’s stunning legs would divert him from his goal.
“She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
Rudy’s sage remark had Jacob’s brush jerking. He swore under his breath as he fixed the mistake with solvent.
He aimed a steady gaze backward. No way to read Rudy’s closed expression. “So you’ve seen her then?”
Rudy shrugged. “Guess I passed her when I came in. She was talking to her sister in the lobby. Thought I saw a family resemblance, but I wanted to hear your opinion.” He propped up a sneakered foot. “Lying would be easier with the sister of mercy. Not as enjoyable though, I’ll bet.”
At Jacob’s narrowed look, Rudy finished a noisy swallow and leaned forward. “I didn’t say that to insult Devon. I like the fiesty ones myself. What I don’t like are the lies.”
Here it came. Squatting, Jacob used a rag to wipe his hands and said nothing.
At his lack of reaction, the aluminum can crushed in Rudy’s strong fingers. “She deserves the truth, boy, not some cockamamie load of crap you don’t even know you can pull off.”
Ruthlessly, Jacob shoved away the picture that haunted him of Devon’s proud and lovely face, her high cheekbones and challenging eyes that had almost—almost—captivated him.
Farther back in his mind, another face materialized, harsher-featured, less forgiving, harder to take on an empty stomach.
“You’re a poor liar, Jacob Price.” Her voice had matched her features, pointed and old. “My Ewen could lie better than a politician. You can’t lie about your feelings without the truth being scribbled all over your face. That face is too pretty, boy. Scar it up some before you try lying to me again....”
Jacob squeezed his eyes closed, blotted out her flinty eyes, cut off her words. Learn to lie—it had been her dying advice to him. Damn her, it had been her motto in life. She’d passed it on to anyone who would listen. And Laura had listened well.
“Seven women are dead, Jacob,” Rudy was growling. The leathery skin on his neck wagged as he shook his head. “Give this vendetta of yours a rest. Let me take care of things. Dammit, I’m the cop—”
“Ex-cop.” Jacob stood, resisted an urge to stumble. He needed food quite badly. Funny, he thought distantly, that it should require more effort to block Devon’s image from his mind than to hold onto his frayed composure. “You can help me or not, Rudy but I won’t let it go. Coombes didn’t kill those women.”
The rough female voice cut in. No sympathy, only a speculative stare that had pierced him like a lance. Maybe you did do it at that, boy. Maybe you killed Laura after all. Yes sir, maybe you really did...
Jacob shot his uncle a black look. “It’ll work, Rudy. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make it work.”
TURKEY FAJITAS, turkey and cauliflower pizza, refried turkey, turkey surprise...
Devon’s head buzzed with recipes for every conceivable leftover turkey recipe. Her poor mother would faint if she tuned into the last thirty minutes of this broadcast.
“That was great,” Emmy Dahl exclaimed after the program went to commercial. “I thought I’d freeze for sure.”
“I wish I had.” Her cookbook writing partner mopped her round face with a tissue. “Once I got going, I couldn’t stop. I hope we didn’t go overboard on the turkey.”
“You were wonderful,” Devon assured them. Certainly the headache pulsing at the base of her skull had less to do with the middle-aged grandmothers sitting across from her than it did with Warren Severen, who was beaming at her through the glass pane.
Alma’s younger brother was the co-owner of WWAV. A handsome man in his mid fifties, his full cap of hair contained more gray than black at this point. He’d thickened around the chest with the passing years, but he remained—and he knew it—a strapping figure. On the surface, at any rate. Beneath his Kevin McCarthy exterior lurked a lecherous drunk. Harmless enough in Devon’s opinion, but tedious to deal with if you weren’t in the mood, which she was not.
Still high from the show, the writers thanked her again, then let the assistant producer escort them from the booth.
“Good show, Dev.” Headset resting on his shoulders, Jimmy popped his curly head in to congratulate her. “I liked the turkey hash best. You got a copy I can borrow?”
“Get it from the web page,” Devon retorted, then smiled and leaned a hip against the control console. “Thanks for doing that background on Detective Riker. I should have mentioned it this morning, but I had other...concerns.”
Namely Riker, who had moved into the empty apartment one floor above her.
He’d arrived lock, stock and paint brush at 7:00 a.m. For reasons she had yet to fathom, Devon hadn’t felt quite the same since she’d watched him muscling a large punching bag up the stairs. Cops assigned to protective duty, should not, she decided testily, be allowed to have sexy bodies, mysterious gazes or tousled hair that skimmed their shoulders. It made women think of dark princes with troubled souls and needs that few if any females could ever satisfy.
Jimmy grinned. “I don’t mind digging dirt on people. Not that there was much to dig on Riker. The guy’s an ace.”
“He didn’t catch the Christmas Murderer.”
“Nobody’s perfect. He worked the case for the first two years. Probably couldn’t stomach any more.”
Devon hated herself for prying but she couldn’t resist. She also wanted to keep Jimmy nearby in case Warren decided to give her one of his famous aprés-broadcast pep talks.
Pushing back the sleeves of her deep rose sweater, she asked casually, “You said he’d been widowed. Do you know how long?”
Jimmy squinted, flipping through his mental files. “Ten years, I think. Yeah, she died on a flight from Philadelphia to Minneapolis, one of those flying-home-for-Thanksgiving things.”
Devon’s heart gave a sympathetic lurch. “A crash?”
“Nope. Heart attack. It must have been a genetic flaw. She was only twenty-five. There wasn’t much on her really.”
Feeling intrusive wasn’t quite powerful enough to stop her from finding out more. “What was her name?”
“Delia Brightman.”
That sounded familiar. Devon searched, but couldn’t make the connection. “I must be thinking of Sarah Brightman,” she decided finally.
“Who?”
“A singer. Phantom of the Opera. Never mind.”
Through the tinted glass, she spotted Alma striding side by side with Roscoe Beale. The handsome publicist was smiling, using his hands, and no doubt a great deal of charm, to illustrate a point. “We could use this, Alma,” he insisted. “I don’t mean exploit the situation, but publicity’s publicity. People eat up bad news. The gorier the better.”
Devon looked at Jimmy. “Do you get the feeling he wants me to start wearing that angel p
endant?”
“Probably. But don’t worry. Alma’s dead set against media exposure over this.”
“Really? I’d have thought she’d have given it serious consideration. Setting aside my personal involvement, Roscoe has a point. Publicity of this kind is good business.”
“Maybe.” Jimmy seemed uncomfortable. “Anyway she’s in a huff over Warren. She’s probably not listening much to Roscoe. Word is Warren locked his office door this morning.”
Devon slid files into her soft-sided leather case. “Not acceptable?”
“No way. Warren’s a monitored man. You haven’t been here long enough to know what he’s like when he gets together with a bottle of Scotch. Not a pretty picture.”
It wasn’t one Devon cared to visualize, that’s for sure. She caught sight of Warren in her peripheral vision, masked a shudder and offered a hasty, “Cover for me,” to Jimmy before zipping her case closed and slipping through the rear door.
“Wait a sec, Devon. I forgot to tell you....”
Whatever Jimmy had forgotten, Devon didn’t wait around to hear it. Warren, looking robust and ruddy-cheeked, had his hand on the doorknob.
“Hey, Dev.” Teddi Waters, the petite brunette who owned the prime afternoon time slot, shifted her coffee to avoid spilling it. “What’s the rush? Did another pendant show up? Ah—never mind, I see him.” She peered at Warren over Devon’s shoulder. “Looks half corked. Where’s Alma?”
“With Roscoe. He’s trying to talk her into doing a spot on the six o‘clock news. ‘Angel pendant sent to WWAV talk-show host Devon Tremayne. Details as they unfold.’”
Teddi wrinkled her pert nose. “Trust Roscoe. Oh, by the way, someone’s looking for you—” Her eyes fixed on the wall clock. “Good God, I’m on in half a minute. Gotta run.”
Sometimes, Devon reflected, turning down a plant- and light-filled corridor, the station had all the earmarks of a wind tunnel. People blew around helter-skelter, never quite finishing sentences or sentiments.
The dull ache in her temples reminded her that she needed to find a bottle of aspirin.
City Life’s broadcast delay time was five minutes. When it ended, Teddi booted up an Aretha Franklin Christmas carol. The song drifted along the carpeted corridors. Amber lights twinkled in the leaves of Alma’s potted ficus plants. With them came to mind the argument Devon had had with Hannah last night as they’d decorated her new spruce....
Riker insisted. Patiently, Hannah created an intricate pattern of red and green lights in the branches. He wants to paint and wallpaper the apartment while he’s here. He even thinks he can revitalize the hardwood floor. I think he’s worried about that pendant, Devon. You should have seen how tense he was when he talked to me. And you already know how worried I am...
Yes, she knew. She knew! Hannah’s wounded-fawn expression had underscored her dreams last night. Ditto, she reflected, for her mental picture of Detective Joel Riker.
Vexed at her lack of control, Devon failed to check around the next corner. It wasn’t until she came nose to chin with someone walking in the opposite direction that her head snapped up and her vision cleared.
“Riker!” She caught her shoulder bag before it slid off. “What are you doing here?”
Something flickered deep in his brown eyes. “My job.”
She let out a breath that was almost reconciled. “Should I get you a studio pass, or have you talked to Alma?”
His lips twitched at the corners. “We’ve had words.”
“Did you explain the situation to her?”
“As much as I needed to. You’re lucky. She’s fond of you.”
Devon thought of Roscoe’s publicity scheme and nodded. “I know.” Curiosity crept in to override discomfort. Riker smelled good, like leather and some intriguing brand of male soap. The attraction hit again, as fiercely as it had two days ago. She would have stepped away if she hadn’t spied the shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. He looked troubled—not in the manner of a dark prince, but rather like a man with a host of problems surrounding him.
In an effort to lighten the mood, Devon flicked at the black cotton sweater he wore under his leather. “Try red sometime, Riker. It’ll flash you up a bit.”
His chuckle caught her off guard. She’d hardly seen him smile. This step was a revelation, taking his face from somberly handsome to startlingly beautiful. Her heart did a long, slow revolution before she ordered it to stop. It was too much far, far too soon.
Amusement lingered in his eyes when he replied, “Cops do better not to flash, Devon. What time do you usually leave here?”
“Five or six. I have to prepare for tomorrow’s program.” Because her senses were still jumping, she started walking toward her office. “We run a delay on the broadcasts, but basically the show’s live. I have a holiday psychologist and a spokesperson from the ASPCA scheduled next.”
“If Christmas is stressing you out, don’t adopt a puppy to keep your kids occupied.”
“Something like that.” Her own humor sparked, Devon sneaked a look at his appealing profile. “Who was that man Hannah talked to yesterday? Rudy Something?”
“Brown. He’s...an old friend. He also did some peripheral investigative work on the third and fourth Christmas Murders.”
“My younger sister’s boyfriend would give his right arm for a vintage motorcycle like that.”
Riker shrugged. “It belonged to his brother. Rudy was too young for World War II, but the bike suits him. Scarred and cranky.”
“I’m sure he’d love the comparison.”
“Probably, since he’s the one who made it.”
“Rudy doesn’t think Coombes is the killer either, I suppose?”
“He’s of two minds.” Riker stopped one door before her office, reaching into his jacket for his ringing cell phone. “Yeah, what?” His eyes slid to Devon’s face, then away.
“No...look, I’ll have to call you back.”
She moved on to insert her key. “If you want privacy, there’s a lounge down the hall. It’ll be empty. This part of the station’s out of the action. I like it that way. The others don’t.”
“Five minutes,” he said and left her to enter alone.
Not bothering with the lights, Devon let her briefcase and purse drop from her shoulder. She closed the door by leaning against it and expelled the first unrestricted breath she’d drawn since bumping into Riker. God help her if she didn’t get a fast stranglehold on this attraction she felt for him.
Her office angled toward the downtown core. A broad tinted window afforded her one of the best views in the building, especially after a snowfall. The streets and sidewalks had been muddied by traffic and snowplows, but a layer of white adorned the surrounding rooftops and, of course, the Delaware River was a picture.
Pushing off, she crossed to the window. A tiny scratch of sound behind her had her glancing back. She saw a shadow pass through the slit of light under the door, then nothing.
Devon blew out a pent-up breath, irritated with her mounting jitters. She was letting run-of the-mill occurrences spook her now. Riker, angel pendants, Roscoe’s publicity-starved attitude, not to mention her own niggling belief that Casey Coombes might not be the Christmas Murderer....
Cutting that thought short, she pushed on her right temple. Aspirin was what she craved. Half a bottle of it by now. And artificial light to soothe her frazzled nerves. The bruised light of day held a peculiar charm, but it also created a legion of dark patches, in her office and in her mind.
She almost sighed at the thought which took her back fifteen Christmases in time, to those nights when her parents had gone visiting and she and Hannah had finally bribed their younger sisters into bed. They would settle in their big flannel nightgowns, armed with quilts, tea and almond cookies, turn out the ground-floor lights and watch transfixed as Alistair Sim’s Scrooge haunted the gloomy London of his childhood. Those days had been the best: days of sharing secre
ts and dreams—and heaping plates of Christmas cookies.
Grinning, Devon pressed the wall switch. It wasn’t until her eyes lowered for an instant that she spotted the square of black construction paper, no doubt the source of the scrape she’d heard earlier. Someone had shoved it under the door.
She hesitated, straightening her fingers as reason warred with fear. How could a piece of paper harm her?
Nervous even so, she bent and picked it up, unfolding it as she stood. Her eyes caught only a blur of gold before a burst of motion erupted to her left.
Something, at first satiny smooth, yet strong as steel when stretched taut, closed about her throat. Instinctively, she clawed at the thing, twisting her neck and body and bringing her foot down hard on someone’s toe. Possibly a booted toe. Her panicky mind couldn’t determine anything beyond the fact that her attacker had the grip of a bionic man. And hair like silk.
Freeing an elbow, she jammed it backward into what should have been his torso. What she encountered instead was air and a sudden, startling sense of free fall.
She hit the carpet with a thump that made every thought in her head bob. The scarf hung backward over her shoulders, but there was no one wielding it, no longer anyone in the office except her.
Shooting to her feet, Devon ran for the door. Fear swelled, threatening to burst her lungs. Where had he gone? Was he waiting for her in the corridor?
By the time that question occurred to her, she’d skidded across the threshold. To her relief, the hall was empty, loaded with reindeer shapes and Santa shadows, but no human life whatsoever.
Her legs carried her unthinking and shaky to the lounge. “Riker!” She found her voice even as her frantic fingers tore the scarf from her neck. “Riker, where are...? Damn!”
She pulled up short, shoving the hair from her face. The lights were off. He’d gone.
Releasing a ragged breath, she allowed herself to sag against the wall.
