by B. J Daniels
His relief was almost palpable. He couldn’t help the surge of adrenaline that shot through him. If Laura saw it, then he had to be right. He was onto something.
“It’s the same woman, isn’t it?” he said, no longer able to contain himself.
As Laura studied the woman in the three photos, she unconsciously pushed a lock of her blond shoulder-length hair back behind one ear. He realized that she’d let her hair grow out since he’d last seen her and felt a wave of guilt. After she’d been shot and left the Seattle P.D., he’d checked on her often during the first few months. But since taking the job with the U.S. Marshals, he had gotten so busy he couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her.
She handed back the magnifying glass. “Three different neighborhoods? Three different homicides?”
Rourke nodded.
“And these are the best shots you have of her?”
“Unfortunately. But she’s the key to those three murders. I can feel it.”
“She might just be a murder junkie. Probably has a scanner next to her bed and responds whenever she hears the call.” Laura shrugged and pushed the photos back toward him. “Have you been able to identify her?”
“Not yet. I’ve hired a private investigator to canvass the neighborhoods where the murders were committed.”
She raised a brow in surprise as she realized he had been working outside the U.S. Marshals Service and apparently for some time. “Aren’t you taking this a little too personally?”
He’d already gone rogue, and now she knew it. “I just have a feeling about this one. I can’t let it go.” He looked down at the photos spread on the table, his eye going to the dark-haired woman. Her face had been haunting him for weeks. When he closed his eyes at night...
She shook her head. “What are you doing, Rourke?”
He could hear the skepticism in her voice. He wished now that he’d ordered a drink. He could use it. Laura thought he was looking for a lead where there wasn’t one. Unfortunately, his boss thought the same thing.
He’d never been plagued with self-doubt when it came to his instincts. But after almost costing a man his life...
“Rourke, what am I really doing here?” Laura asked.
* * *
“I NEED YOUR HELP,” Rourke said, leaning toward her conspiratorially. “I remembered that your background was psychology and criminology. Did I hear correctly that you’re doing freelance profiling for the Seattle P.D.?”
Laura shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew this, but she was. Just as she shouldn’t have been disappointed that he’d asked her to dinner because he wanted her help on a case.
“I need to know about this woman and the kind of man who would be in her life,” he said.
“Based on three photos?” she asked, thinking he must be kidding.
“This woman is the connection between the three different crime scenes, but I think there’s more. I think she’s working with a serial killer.”
Laura leaned back in her chair in surprise. She studied him for a moment before she looked at the photographs again. She tried to imagine why this woman was at three separate crime scenes in three separate neighborhoods. It could be as simple as morbid curiosity. Or not.
Profiling was a science based on statistics compiled of criminals. Depending on the type of murder, she could paint a fairly accurate picture of the killer once she had all the information. Or, if Rourke was right about the woman, in this case, co-killer.
Of course, it was much more likely that this woman could be just as Laura had said before, someone with a scanner who lived such a dull life that going to crime scenes was her only source of entertainment.
Had it not been Rourke, she would have dismissed this without a thought. But she’d learned a long time ago to trust him. If he felt he had to chase this, even jeopardize his job to do so, then she had to take it seriously.
She motioned for the magnifying glass again. What was funny was that when she’d first noticed the woman, she’d thought she recognized her. Something about the woman’s face... But when she studied the features, she decided the woman merely had one of those sweet, innocent-looking faces. That didn’t make Laura hate her any less.
She knew it was crazy to be jealous of a woman in a crime-scene photo who was possibly involved in at least three murders. But she could see that no woman had ever captivated Rourke like this one had. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her in the photo.
Laura figured he’d be disappointed when he finally came face-to-face with her. That was if he could find her—and didn’t get himself killed in the process.
Pushing the photos away, she was torn between laughter and tears when she thought how excited she’d been after Rourke’s call. What a fool she’d been, taking forever to get dressed. She’d even put on a little makeup, not that Rourke had noticed. And while she was touched that he’d called her to help with this, she wanted him to see her. Not the former cop. Not the former homicide partner. For once, she just wanted him to look at her and see the woman.
“So, what are you planning to do?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Laura, I can’t get these three cold cases out of my mind. I have no choice but to try to find this woman. I know you think I’m a fool to chase this.”
She sighed, seeing his disappointment. He’d hoped she would jump on board just like in the old days when he’d bent the rules and she had gone along with it. But the last time she’d bent the rules, she was almost killed. Her world, as she had known it, ended the day she was shot. She still had the scars, both inside and out.
Now, sitting here with him, she found herself battling a growing anger, more at herself than at him. Not that she thought it made any difference. Picking up her glass, she took a sip of her Scotch, hoping the alcohol would steady her.
“I’ve got two weeks,” he said, oblivious to her mounting resentment. “Once I get this woman’s name—”
“You’re really going to risk throwing away your career for some questionable lead in some old cold cases?”
He waved a hand through the air. “You know the ‘career’ part is the least of it for me. Sure, I love what I do and have worked hard to get where I am, but what is the point if I can’t chase a case that’s gotten into my blood?”
Her blood was on fire now. She could feel it flush her cheeks as she took another drink. The Scotch was like throwing gasoline on a blaze. “You don’t care about a career I would give my left leg for?” She let out a bark of a laugh, trying to keep her voice down when she was raging inside. “Oh, that’s right—I lost my career because of my left leg. Shot in the line of duty. Bang. Career over and you...” She lifted her nearly empty Scotch glass, suddenly at a loss for words. Tears welled and spilled. She wiped furiously at them. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t let him see how messed up she was or how deep her hurt ran.
Rourke looked shocked as he reached for her. “Laura, I’m so sorry.”
She shook off the hand he placed on her arm. He motioned to the waitress to bring her another drink. That was all she needed. Didn’t he realize how close she was to telling him not only how she felt about the loss of her career but also how she felt about him?
“You’re going to do it—jeopardize everything.” Her chest ached with unshed tears. “Why would you do this?” Because of the woman in the photo. Something about that face had gotten to him.
Rourke looked distressed that he’d upset her, but also shocked. “I’m doing this because of you, Laura. I wanted to do this for you, and once I found the lead...”
She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The third murder case? It was yours before you and I became partners.”
“I wasn’t on Homicide until—”
“No, you were still a street cop, but I saw you
r notes on this case in the original file. You were there, Laura. You took these photographs.”
She shook her head, telling herself this couldn’t be true, but an inkling of a memory fought to surface. Was that why she’d thought she recognized the woman in the crowd, because she’d taken her photo?
“I know it sounds crazy,” Rourke continued, “but it’s the reason I first got involved in this case. I saw your notes, and I wanted to solve it for you. Then, when I found the other two similar murders from the area and the same woman in all of the shots...”
All the fire in her blew out as if doused by a bucket of ice water. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. This was the Rourke she knew and loved. And wanting to solve this case because of her... Well, this was as romantic as Rourke Kincaid got. At least with her.
As the waitress arrived with their burgers, Rourke quickly pocketed the magnifying glass and slid the photos back into the folder, dropping it again on the seat next to him. The waitress exchanged her empty Scotch glass for a full one.
Laura picked it up, closed her eyes and took a gulp of the icy cold booze.
She couldn’t believe this. He’d gotten involved in the case because of her. But it was the woman in the photograph who had him about to commit career suicide.
Even with her eyes closed, she could see the image of the dark-haired young woman with the angelic face standing behind the crime-scene tape. Rourke wouldn’t be the only one haunted by the woman now.
CHAPTER THREE
ROURKE MENTALLY KICKED HIMSELF. What the hell had he been thinking, going to Laura about this?
Had he thought she might want to help him by living vicariously while he solved this one? He’d been more than insensitive, but then again, Laura had also changed. He’d never seen her in tears before—even the night she was shot.
Her wounds had been nearly fatal, but she’d recovered—all except for her left leg. Like him, though, she wasn’t built for a desk job, so he was glad she had gotten into the profiling field. He thought she’d be damned good at it. Which was another reason he’d asked her to dinner.
He’d foolishly assumed, though, that the old Laura, the one who felt like an equal, would show up. This Laura... Well, she was more fragile. He should have realized that would be the case.
They ate their meals, him changing the subject to the weather. It didn’t always rain in Seattle, but still, there wasn’t that much to say.
“Is your food okay?” he asked, noticing that she’d barely touched hers. That wasn’t like her either. One of the things he’d always loved about her when they were partners was that she liked to eat as much as he did. Seattle offered every kind of fare there was, and the two of them had consumed their share.
“I had to quit eating like I used to,” she said, spearing a French fry and taking a small bite.
How had he not noticed that, along with the change in hairstyle, she’d also dropped the weight she’d gained after the shooting? Laura was an attractive woman, not classically beautiful, but striking. At five-eight, she looked strong, as if she’d been working out in spite of her leg. She’d been a blonde for as long as he’d known her, and yet her coloring seemed wrong for the pale shade, making him wonder what her natural color was. Something else he hadn’t noticed until now.
“You look great,” he said, again reminded of how little he really knew about his former partner, when she seemed to know him so well.
She smiled as if she knew he hadn’t really looked at her until that moment.
“So, you’re doing okay?” he asked, worried about her.
Laura was his age: thirty-six. It surprised him that she’d never married again. She’d apparently been married for a short time before he’d met her to a man named Mike Fuller. She never talked about it. Nor did she date much, seeming more interested in her career.
He wondered if there was a man in her life, now that, thanks to the shooting, she didn’t have such a demanding career. In the old days, he might have asked. But a lot had changed since those days, and he didn’t feel close enough to question her about her love life.
“I was glad when I heard you were finishing up your studies to be a profiler,” he finally ventured. “Laura, I know you’ll be a great one.”
She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I started doing some studying on my own while I was laid up and realized it might be something I was good at.” She met his gaze. “I can help you with this case, if you’ll let me.” She raised a hand before he could say he’d changed his mind and wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “If I could talk you out of this, I would. But since we both know I can’t...”
This was what he’d hoped she would say. If he hoped to solve these murder cases, he could use her help since all of the resources of the U.S. Marshals’ office were off-limits during his suspension. While he thought profiling could be useful, he knew it was good old-fashioned investigative work that usually solved crimes. But he wanted Laura on his team.
The truth was that he needed her for more than profiling. Lately, he’d been second-guessing himself, no longer sure he should trust his own judgment. He needed Laura’s analytical mind. “I—” But he didn’t get a chance to finish whatever he was going to say.
His cell phone rang, and when he checked it, he said, “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s the P.I. I hired.” He stepped away, relieved for the call as he hurried outside. Laura seemed so fragile right now. Even though he needed her help, did he dare involve her in this?
Outside the café, it had begun to drizzle, the sky a dull gray wash as everything quickly became slick with rain. Seattle had a fairly high suicide rate. He’d never felt that internal darkness as much as he did now, standing under the awning of the restaurant.
“I found something,” Edwin Sharp said without preamble. “I think it could be who you’re looking for. A landlady identified the woman in the photo as Callie Westfield. She worked as a waitress at a café in the neighborhood. The owner of the café required her driver’s license when she started work, so I was able to get a copy. Her full name is Caligrace Westfield. I ran her through the system. I couldn’t find a residential address, but I do have an address where she is currently employed.”
Rourke pulled out his notebook and pen.
“She’s working as a waitress at the Branding Iron Café in Beartooth, Montana.”
* * *
LAURA FELT SICK to her stomach as she left the restaurant. She’d been too upset to eat, but she’d forced herself to consume as much of her meal as she could. Rourke had felt bad enough, without her making him feel worse.
As astute as the man was when it came to solving crimes, he seldom saw what was right in front of his face. Rourke didn’t have a clue when it came to her. He’d really believed that missing her old job in law enforcement was the reason she was upset. How could he not know that she’d been in love with him almost from the start?
“It’s you, Rourke!” she had wanted to scream. “I miss you! I miss the damned force, but it’s because I miss talking to you every day!” Even if it had been about only their latest cases. “I miss being with you.” Days off used to be hell. She couldn’t wait to get back to work. Back to Rourke.
Like him, she’d been on the fast track, moving quickly from a Seattle P.D. officer to Homicide. The sky had been the limit for both of them. They had been called the Dream Team. She could laugh about it now, but back then, she was sure everyone thought she and Rourke were sleeping together. They were that compatible. They could finish each other’s sentences. They were that close. So no wonder they had worked so well together.
And they were good. Between the two of them, they solved cases. Their futures were so bright, they felt like rock stars, she thought bitterly.
Then that night in the alley... She’d gone in alone even though Rourke had told her to wait. He’d had one of the felons on the g
round, restraining the man with cuffs. But she didn’t want to wait. She’d felt a singing in her blood. A feeling that she was invincible. She’d gone down the alley not realizing the man was trapped at the end, hunkered down, shot full of drugs, a loaded gun in his hand and his finger on the trigger.
Reaching her car now, she climbed in, her leg aching from either the short walk to her parking spot—or the memory of that night and the impact of the bullet as it struck the bone.
Everyone told her that she was lucky to be alive. Lucky. Sick to her stomach now, heart aching and her mind racing, she didn’t feel lucky at all. She felt scared.
Rourke thought he was chasing a serial killer and was now headed for some town in Montana called Beartooth. He had been quiet after his phone call, and she’d had to drag what little she could out of him. Clearly, he’d changed his mind about involving her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She’d prove to him that he needed her help. She’d put her personal feelings aside and be the cop he needed her to be.
“So, what’s her name?” she’d asked, hating that he’d wanted to close her out.
“This whole thing could blow up in my face. I shouldn’t have involved you.”
She’d given him a sideways look. “But you did involve me, and now you’re stuck with me. I can tell that you have more than just her location. What’s her name?”
He’d relented as she’d known he would. He wouldn’t have brought her the photos if he hadn’t really wanted her help—needed her help. It was that thought that had made the rest of the dinner bearable.
“Caligrace Westfield.”
Her fingers trembled now as she put the key into the ignition. As far as she knew, she’d never heard the name before and yet...
She was anxious to get home, even though Rourke had wanted to put her in a taxi. She’d pointed out that she hadn’t finished her second Scotch and was fine to drive. She was still shaken, blaming it on the fact that she’d gotten her hopes up that the dinner was going to be more than it was.
