“Go home, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and try to make this right.”
The brother said something else, in a voice too low to hear, but the sheriff’s response was fully audible. With words as sharp and hard as chips of ice, she again ordered her brother out, adding, “Or else you’ll find out what a bitch I can be.”
Ouch. If he ever called his own sister such a name, she’d bash him in the head.
The sharp slam of an inside door was followed by two sets of footsteps. The first was the hurried click of shoes belonging to the missing receptionist, who raced into her oversize fish-bowl cubicle. She threw herself into her chair, as if to avoid being spotted by the man who’d been arguing with her boss. Dean had a sudden visual of the big-haired woman with her ear pressed to the keyhole. Not that it would need to be—that argument could have been heard on the street.
The next footsteps, heavier and hard, belonged to a lean guy, probably in his mid-thirties, around Dean’s age, wearing ragged jeans and a T-shirt. His deep scowl was matched by angry red scars that ran from his neck all the way up his cheek and into his hairline.
“The fuck you lookin’ at?” he snarled as he strode past Dean and Wyatt. He shoved the handle and pushed the door open, stalking outside without another word.
The whole scene had taken less than a minute, but it left an aura of unease in the office. Wyatt straightened his tie, shifted his jacket, and finally cleared his throat.
“Oh, my, I didn’t see you standing there,” the receptionist said. She must have thought Mr. Friendly’s parting remark had been addressed to her. “I’ll go get the sheriff.”
Another female voice intruded. “No need.”
Even before she introduced herself, Dean knew they were being greeted by Sheriff Rhodes. He’d been curious about her since they’d spoken yesterday afternoon, wondering how she would hold up if the team’s speculations were correct and a serial killer was living in her jurisdiction. Hearing her fight with her brother, he suspected the woman could seriously hold her own.
Seeing her confirmed it.
“Thanks for meeting with us. I’m Supervisory Special Agent Wyatt Blackstone,” Wyatt said as he showed the woman his badge. “This is Special Agent Dean Taggert.”
While she checked out their IDs, Dean made a quick visual assessment of the sheriff.
Probably in her early thirties, Stacey Rhodes didn’t come across as too young for her job. In fact, she wore her uniform as if she’d been born in it. She was tall, close to his six feet, with shoulders squared and posture military-straight. Her chin was up, her green eyes assessing, though not cold. Her reddish blond hair was pulled back too tightly to determine its length, but the style emphasized the determined jut of her jaw and the sculpted lines of her face. She exuded competence.
Thank God. Before he’d picked up the phone to call here yesterday, he’d envisioned a turf battle with a blustering, small-minded, small-town bureaucrat who’d like the spotlight of an FBI investigation, but not the down-in-the-dirt work of one. Since Lisa Zimmerman was still officially a missing person, they could have encountered trouble. But he already suspected they wouldn’t. Nothing about Sheriff Rhodes indicated that she was someone who’d get belligerent or territorial at the expense of a murder investigation.
“Special Agent Taggert.” The woman extended her hand after she’d shaken Wyatt’s. “We spoke yesterday?”
“Yes, we did.” Clasping her hand in his for a brief shake, Dean noted the strength, expected, but also the softness of her skin. That was definitely unexpected.
As was his sudden reaction to it, which came completely out of nowhere.
Because while he’d been visually running down her qualifications for the job, he had obviously mentally processed something else—that she was very attractive. The brush of his hand against hers brought that realization home with a sharp jolt deep in his gut.
Her fitted uniform appeared as uncomfortable for this weather as Dean’s suit, but she wore it well. Incredibly well. Damn, no wonder the woman carried herself with such professional dignity. Her attitude was sure to provide at least a momentary distraction from the tall, lithe body, with the full hips and slim waist emphasized by the khaki pants. Not to mention the prominent curves beneath her long-sleeved, button-up shirt.
He wasn’t distracted anymore, though.
Suddenly feeling the heat of the day even more than he had outside, Dean forced himself to ignore the soft, feminine form trying to hide beneath the stiff, starched clothes. He put his focus back where it belonged: strictly above her shoulders.
That didn’t help much. Because despite the lack of a smile, her mouth was just a little too wide, her lips a little too lush for someone oozing such authority.
So this is what instant attraction feels like.
He hadn’t experienced it before, this sudden, heated awareness that made him incapable of putting two thoughts together. And frankly, he didn’t like it. Distractions caused problems and mistakes.
Neither of which he could afford right now. Not when he was so busy trying to keep all the balls of his life up in the air. A new job on a probationary team, a new apartment courtesy of a lopsided divorce agreement … a new man being called Dad by his own son. Hell, he had so much on his plate he might as well call his life a Denny’s breakfast special.
He nodded coolly and kept his expression impassive when the sheriff invited them to her office. And he kept his eyes glued to the back of her head rather than even considering watching the sway of her hips and the curve of her ass as she led them there.
“Please have a seat,” Sheriff Rhodes said, gesturing toward two empty chairs opposite her desk. The office was neat, and despite the age of the furnishings, it was equipped with new-looking computer equipment. Not nearly up to CAT standards, but better than he’d have expected, given the fact that the sheriff’s department was housed in a building smaller than an average fast-food joint. “Would you like some coffee? Or something cold to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Wyatt said, as Dean shook his head in refusal.
“Okay.” The sheriff crossed her arms and eyed them both.
For a second, he wondered if she would comment on the fight they’d heard—she had to have known they were there. But she didn’t, choosing to ignore it. “Tell me what you know about Lisa Zimmerman.” Her full mouth tightened. “Special Agent Taggert was a bit cryptic on the phone yesterday.”
Not used to being thwarted, this one. The instant realization, the way her personality was revealing itself in her every gesture and word, almost made him smile. But Dean squelched the reaction. “Sorry. I didn’t want to tell you what we think happened to Lisa without giving you a chance to look at some photographs. We don’t know the identity of the woman in the pictures, or when or where they were taken. So it’s best for you to just look at them cold.”
“Ever heard of e-mail attachments?”
“These need to be seen in person,” he explained, taking no offense. He’d have been annoyed at the stalling, too. “Preferably by someone who has met Lisa.”
She stiffened, preparing herself. “I’ve known her since she was a kid.”
Damn. Good news for them, but it would make it harder for her if she’d known the victim for so long.
Reaching into his briefcase, Dean drew out a few stills Brandon had isolated from the digital recording. The images weren’t the best, taken at night with an average-quality video camera. But that night had been a clear one, and the killer had been using some type of artificial lighting. He’d also zoomed in on his victim’s face, nice and tight, as well as pulling back to present the whole scene.
The killer had wasted no effort in making his show more enjoyable for his audience. And he’d turned his camera away from absolutely nothing.
Starting with the ones from the earliest part of the torture session, Dean spread three photos on the desk, turning them to face the sheriff. The victim’s eyes were closed in the first, her head slumped, her ch
in touching her chest. She’d been unconscious for the first few minutes of the film. Judging by the trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth, she’d been made that way by one or more sharp blows to the face and head.
The next shot was more disturbing. The victim’s eyes were open, confusion and pain warring with terror in her expression. Seeing what she’d been seeing—the hooded figure, the moonlight glittering on the knife—anyone would have been the same.
Anyone.
He positioned the third picture, hoping this would be the last he’d have to show the woman sitting so stiffly, her posture revealing nothing, though every ounce of color had fallen from her cheeks. This was a full-length shot, showing the naked victim, conscious and aware, her face bleeding but her body still unblemished by the blade that was about to be visited upon her with such excruciating ferocity.
Watching the sheriff’s reaction, he knew when her eyelids fluttered down and she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth that they’d identified their victim. The sheen of moisture in her eyes when she reopened them confirmed it, but also made him feel like crap for having to put her through this.
Bad enough for anyone in law enforcement looking at the final, agonizing moments of a stranger. But to see someone she’d known since childhood? Hell. “Sheriff Rhodes?” he asked, his tone gentle. “Can you identify the woman in the photographs?”
She swallowed visibly, then nodded once. “It’s Lisa Zimmerman.”
“You’re sure?”
“Even if I didn’t recognize her face immediately, I’d know her by that bumblebee tattoo on her shoulder. She was a finalist in a statewide spelling bee in elementary school. She had that put on a couple of years ago, I guess to remind herself that she’d once accomplished something.” She pushed the pictures away, the tips of her nails touching the very edges, as if she couldn’t bear any more contact with them. “So she’s dead?”
“We haven’t found her body,” Wyatt explained. The man sounded coolly professional, as always, but also quietly subdued in respect for the sheriff’s obvious dismay. “But yes, there seems to be no doubt the woman in these pictures is dead.”
Silence descended in the office for a long moment, broken only by the hiss of the air-conditioning unit in the window. The stream of cold air ruffled some papers on the sheriff’s desk, and lifted a finger-size strawberry-blond curl that had escaped the bun at her nape. The skin it rested against looked slick, damp with the kind of sweat that could never be chased away on a day this hot.
That soft, fragile strand of hair was the only part of her that moved during the full minute it took her to process the situation. The rest of her remained frozen in place, unmoving, unblinking, almost not even breathing.
She was the picture of a professional—dealing with an awful crime that touched her personally. Yet already detaching herself from it in order to do her job.
He’d have expected nothing less. Dean watched closely, wondering why he understood her so well after such a brief acquaintance. But he didn’t have to wonder for long before the truth washed over him with sudden clarity.
She was like him. Stacey Rhodes compartmentalized her reactions. She put the tough ones aside to be dealt with later, at a more expedient time, in a more appropriate place. He could almost see the way her brain churned behind those green eyes, putting up walls and barriers to separate facts from emotion.
With Dean, it was usually his anger that he thrust away, shoving it aside to focus on getting the job done. When the release came, it was often quick and ruthless, exploding out of him blow by blow against a punching bag at the gym or with a brutal workout that left him free of any feeling at all.
With Sheriff Rhodes, it was her sadness she was tucking away out of sight, boxing up, hammering it closed with tenpenny nails. She would eventually release it in the privacy of her home, with a few tears, perhaps. At least he hoped so, because, God, holding on to that kind of grief for too long could crush a person.
He knew that from experience. They had different emotions. Different reactions. But the same basic method of dealing with them.
Finally, she cleared her throat and her chin went up. That curl remained beside her soft neck, but every other inch of her was sharp. “I assume there are more pictures?”
Dean’s hands closed tightly around the folder containing the additional shots of Lisa Zimmerman’s final moments. He kept it in his lap, not willing to show her the rest. He didn’t know if her mind had enough safe rooms to deal with them all.
“Yes, there are,” Wyatt said.
“They don’t look like typical photographs.” She tented her hands on the top of her desk and matter-of-factly surmised, “Screen shots?”
Dean nodded. “Yes.”
“So there’s a video.”
A frisson of concern rising up his spine, Dean felt his fingers tighten on the folder, and this nod was slower in coming. “A digital video file. It came to our attention recently, though it was originally uploaded to the Internet in April of last year, a month after Lisa disappeared.”
She blanched at the uploaded to the Internet part. “I need to see it.”
He had no idea what Wyatt was going to say when he opened his mouth, and he didn’t care. Dean immediately answered. “Out of the question.”
“I have to see it, especially if you want my help.”
“Of course we want your help,” Wyatt murmured, “and of course you can see it. If you’re really sure you want to.”
“No, I don’t want to,” she admitted. She swallowed, her slender throat working with the effort, as if she’d scooped a handful of sand into her mouth. “I need to.”
Dean continued to shake his head. “No.”
She leaned over her desk, tension and heat rolling off her in waves, as if the mental barriers holding back her fury and anguish over Lisa’s murder would burst if she were pushed too hard. “What’s the matter? Afraid a small-town sheriff, a female one, can’t handle it? You should know I—”
He interrupted her, putting one hand up, palm out. “That’s not it. To be frank, Sheriff Rhodes, that video is something nobody who actually knew Lisa Zimmerman should ever see if they can help it.”
They stared at each other for a moment, and he saw the indignation leave her. He understood the reaction. She probably dealt with sexism on a daily basis. It was unfortunately commonplace in law enforcement.
She remained silent, mollified. The tense hands unclenched and she sat back in her chair. She nodded slowly, conceding the point, acknowledging her rush to judgment.
Calm and levelheaded, reasonable and intelligent. And incredibly sexy. God, where had this woman been all his life?
Forcing that insane thought away, he muttered, “We’ve got more screen shots, if you need more verification.”
“Agent Taggert, please listen.”
Her serious tone told him she wasn’t just playing I-can-keep-up-with-the-boys-in-the-schoolyard, as if he’d ever for a moment thought she would. She offered him a small, rueful smile. Her expression held warmth for the first time since she’d greeted him in the lobby. Knowing how those tightly sealed boxes of emotion had to be screaming for release behind those green eyes, he could only do as she asked.
“I appreciate your concern, and believe me, if it weren’t important, I wouldn’t press the issue. I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do than sit through what I suspect is probably going to be the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Giving up had never been one of Dean’s strong suits, so he couldn’t help saying, “No probably about it. It’ll be worse than your darkest nightmare. This unsub—unknown subject—is among the sickest, most perverse killers I’ve ever seen. Why put yourself through this? Are you having second thoughts that it’s her?”
“It’s her.”
“Then why?” She sure wasn’t the type to get off on voyeuristic violence. If he was wrong about that then he’d learned nothing in his twelve years in law enforcement.
&
nbsp; Her answer took Dean completely by surprise. He’d been prepared for protestations that she had to be sure, for the family’s sake. That it was her job. What he didn’t expect was the answer he got.
“I have to watch the film, Agent Taggert, because I think I might be able to tell you where Lisa Zimmerman died.”
STACEY COULD PROBABLY have told the FBI agents sitting in her office where she thought Lisa had been killed without watching that horrific home movie of the slaughter. Considering she was now leaning over the bathroom sink, having puked her guts out one minute after the clip had ended, she almost wished she had.
Almost.
Her only solace was that there had been no audio accompaniment. If she’d had to hear Lisa’s anguished screams, she doubted she’d ever get their echoes out of her ears.
But she’d needed to see it. Having a hunch based on the shimmer of something in the background of one of the original three pictures wasn’t enough. Not for a case like this. Not when Stacey was going to have to go tell Winnie Freed her daughter was dead.
Another parent mourning another child. It was too much. She’d come here, back to Hope Valley, specifically because she never wanted to see such anguish again. Never wanted to witness the pain she’d seen in her last days as a state cop, when parent after parent had cried their grief for the children they’d sent off to school and never seen again.
God, how could they possibly bear it? How would Winnie bear it?
“Sheriff?” Someone knocked on the closed bathroom door. Fortunately, it wasn’t one of the two agents. The voice was female.
“I’m okay, Connie.” She wet a paper towel, holding it to her forehead and her cheeks, trying desperately to get her heart to stop racing and her stomach to stop heaving.
FADE TO BLACK - Thrilling Romantic Suspense - Book 1 of the BLACK CATS Series Page 5
