Damn, the man had a split personality even at rest. The hard lines of his face softened where his cheek sank into the pillow, and the ever present crease of concentration normally etched into his forehead like a tattoo faded into his skin.
One day, she’d like to get to know this side of him, too, she thought before the edge of a page caught the tender skin between her fingers and left a shallow yet painful scrape.
Lacy pressed her pained finger to her mouth and sucked. Damn cops and their files.
She shuffled the papers, pushing the edges flush with her palm when the light from the hall illuminated the name typed neatly along the outer tab before her thumb covered the lettering.
It had to be the light, or maybe her head was still too foggy from sleep. She hadn’t had a nightmare in Mitch’s arms. Had she?
That could have been why now, wide-awake, she thought she’d seen her kidnapper’s name printed on one of the file tabs.
A second look would solve the mystery. All she had to do was look down to the files in her hands and read the name again. Simple enough.
Her hands shook, and her stomach pulled tight. It wasn’t until her chest burned that she realized she hadn’t taken a breath since she’d cut her finger.
Be a big ass girl and look.
Slow and deliberate, she moved her thumb from over the tab.
Richard Wray.
Her vision narrowed to the file. Her heart rammed through her chest and up her throat like a horned bull escaping the Matador. Sure he’d have a file on Wray. He was a cop, investigating a murder. It was as normal a thing to have on his nightstand as a half read book. So why did finding it there make her feel like she’d just slept with the enemy? She closed her eyes tight and tried to calm down. She shouldn’t be this upset.
Then it hit her. Until now, she should could almost pretend Mitch was just a cop working on a case, but now, with Wray’s file in her hands, she couldn’t deny he was the detective who could make her life unravel at the seams.
The best thing to do, the smart thing, would be to put the files back on his dresser, get dressed, and call Connie for a ride.
She could claim the sex wasn’t any good. Hell, at this point, she’d pull Stetson in for a big, juicy wet-one if she thought that would send Mitch packing out of her life, no explanation needed.
He wouldn’t have to suspect she’d left out of fear. That she had anything to do with Richard Wray. That she was the missing link to solve the case of his career.
Her breaths came in gasps now. A cold sweat broke along her forehead, and she wiped it with her cut finger, ignoring the pain of salt in the wound.
She’d seen Wray’s files before. Her father had one locked away in his private stash in the home office. In her teenage years, she’d stumbled onto it when a boyfriend she’d dated to piss her father off taught her the fine art of lock picking on the liquor cabinet. Funny how the same technique worked on file drawers.
But this wasn’t her father’s file. She could understand why her father kept his so close. Hidden in a place out of constant view, yet accessible at a moment’s noticed to jot down more information.
This was Mitch’s file. Thick and worn. Well used. Why? The case had gone cold ten years ago. Not even the fancy true-life detective show the state put on to catch elusive killers had taken an interest in resurrecting the search for her kidnapper. Why had Mitch?
She dropped her fingers to the file and flipped it open, revealing several pictures of Wray. Some police issue, some candid snapshots taken from surveillance. One of him the way he’d looked the day he’d taken her; a thin growth of beard on his cheeks and chin and long, uneven brown hair hanging over his dark eyes.
None seemed to be any more recent then his mug shot from ten years ago when a rook cop pulled him for DWI in Florida, and the department let him go before the warrant search flagged him. But she already knew there wouldn’t be any newer photos. There never would be. Her father had seen to that years ago.
She flipped a few more pages. Girl’s bodies. Some with the plastic tarps he’d used as coffins still lining their bodies. Blue rope still tight around their wrists and ankles.
Vacant stares from pale faces.
She shivered and rubbed her wrist. The rope burn scars still there under the dream catcher tattoo. And Mitch had come so close to finding them.
To finding her.
Her body seemed to forget how to function. Her fingers went numb, dropping the file to the floor again. Her vision blurred, and her head fogged over until the image of her living, breathing nightmare was the only clear thought in her too heavy head.
Since the first day he’d shown up in Charlie’s, she’d known his ultimate goal was to find information on Wray, but finding the file still stung.
She shook her head at her own stupidity. The girl. The one the hunters found in the woods. She’d never believed that girl had been killed by Wray. She knew better. Wray would never kill again.
But maybe Mitch did believe. And it wouldn’t take long before his search dug up other evidence. Evidence that would lead straight back to her and the nightmare her father had put his career and life on the line to keep hidden from the public.
“Angel.” The bed creaked under Mitch’s shifting weight. He sat up and flipped on the bedside lamp.
The brightness blinded her.
Scrambling to suppress her emotion, Lacy shook loose of the fog and shoved the files into a heap on the floor.
She had seconds to pull herself together. Seconds to erase the last ten years from her face before Mitch got a good look at her.
“Just a second.” She shuffled the papers, slid a file with a name she knew as well as her own on top, but the effort was too late.
Mitch had crawled across the bed, and his wide feet landed on the floor by her knees seconds before his body sank to her. One warm hand landed on her thigh. The other cupped her chin and tilted her face forward and into the light.
His eyes were focused when she looked up, focused and concerned even with the brightness of the light shining on them.
She should have guessed Mitch wouldn’t even need the normal few seconds to adjust to the light.
“What happened?” His voice was light, calm. Too light. Too calm to match the hard lines of his face and the firm hold his fingers had on her leg. His gaze only dropped to hers long enough to glance at the files, and then back up. “Why do you have my files?”
Did Mitch know about her? Had Wray been the reason he’d come to Charlie’s? To find her? Shit, he was using her, and she’d fallen right into bed with him. Had trusted him enough to do what she’d never trusted another man to. Given him... everything.
Thoughts raced through her head, but she fought to keep her face relaxed. Her eyes focused. “They fell.”
He crocked his head. “They fell?”
Damn him. Why would he even question her? “I needed to pee, and when I was trying to get out from under your arm, I accidently kicked them off the table.”
He nodded with a tight bob of the head, but his eyes didn’t believe her, neither did the straight line of his mouth, or the fingers now burning the flesh of her thigh.
She fought to keep from squirming under his stare.
As if someone flipped a switch, his eyes lightened, and he smiled before a throaty laugh erupted. “Guess I wasn’t ready to let you go then.” His fingers eased on her leg. “Did you hurt yourself?”
His gaze moved to the file. She’d missed it before, but her cut finger left a print of blood from where she’d pressed her hands too hard to keep from shaking.
“Paper cut. The papers fell out, and I shuffled them back in. The Chief yells like a wild banshee when his files are disrupted. I figured you’d be pissed and panicked.” God, where else had she left a bloody print? What other file would bare her crimson mark of guilt?
“I’m not the chief.” He smiled and took the files from her. As if they meant nothing to him, he reached behind and plopped them on the nightst
and before lifting her injured finger to his mouth and sucking.
His stare held such intensity she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. “Want to talk about what you saw?”
Shit. He knew. She pulled her hand away from his mouth and held her finger in her other palm. “I think I need a bandage, you have any in the bathroom?”
Without waiting for an answer, she pushed off the bedroom floor and dashed to the safety of the closed door and debated locking it. He’d hear the lock click, and besides, one good shoulder shove and he’d have the door open.
“Angel?”
The soft knock made her jump. She turned on the faucet and let it run. “Be out in a minute. I don’t want the cut to get infected.”
She splashed cold water on her face and reached for a towel to dry it off. Damn, it smelled like him, spicy and warm and... Lace, get it together. He’s just like every other detective you’ve known. The case is the only thing that matters. She’d been a fool to believe any different.
She had to think. What were the options? She could confront him. That’s what she really wanted to do right now. She clinched her fists, and her nails dug into her palms. She paced the small room. But like all detectives, he’d have some story. Some pre-concocted alibi to hide his real motive.
No. She had to stop thinking like a jilted girlfriend and start thinking like him, a detective. She had to play this off as if she’d never seen the file. Crawl back into bed with him. Act as if this had never happened, and not enjoy the feel of him wrapped around her, and in the morning she could leave. Catch her breath, and use some of her father’s more gullible men to figure out how much Mitch knew about her abduction. Turn the tables on him. Scope him out.
The second knock, louder than the first, hit the door. “Angel. What’s wrong, baby? You flew out of here like you’d seen a ghost.”
Interesting choice of words, Detective. She had to pull this off. Had to act normal until she could leave without him suspecting.
“Did I hurt you?” She heard his forehead connect with the other side of the door. Time was running out before he’d take the door off the hinges to reach her.
With shaking fingers, she fixed her hair in the mirror, found a bandage in the medicine cabinet, pressed on her everything’s-just-peachy smile, and flung the door open, the picture of calm perfection. “Do you always get this upset about people using your bathroom?”
Mitch’s lips eased into a smile, but he angled his face to the side, sizing her up. He took her hand in his and rubbed a thumb over the flesh colored bandage. “All better now?”
He wasn’t talking about the cut. She could tell by the way he watched her face. He caressed her injured finger with the pad of his thumb, but his eyes were looking right through her.
“It’s just a small cut. It won’t kill me.”
He reached for her hand and pulled her along the now dark room leading her right back to purgatory. Or hell, depending on how she decided to view it.
Lacy let him wrap his body around her and pull her back into his chest. She felt him breathe deeply, his warmth fanning through the hairs on top of her head.
“You’d tell me if I hurt you, right?” He kissed the top of her head. “The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.”
Lacy only nodded. The stream of tears and emotion in her throat would give her away if she talked.
She’d been a fool to think him any different. She’d been a damn fool to trust.
CHAPTER NINE
Mitch cracked one eye open and flung his arm at the nightstand. He retrieved his buzzing phone before the second ring. His other arm lay numb under Lacy’s head, but he hadn’t had the heart to move her once she fell asleep. He rolled to his back and clicked the green on button.
Keeping his voice low he answered. “Kilpatrick.”
“I’ve never known you to sleep in, Kilpatrick. Hickville making you soft already?”
He checked his watch and growled into the phone. “It’s four in the morning, Bishop.”
Lacy’s head nuzzled into his side before sinking back into the sheets.
“And you sound dazed enough to have been slammed into by a freight train. That can only mean one of two things with you. Which is it? Booze or booty call?”
Mitch cupped a hand around the phone and slid his legs out from the covers. “No such thing.”
Bishop had been the closest thing he had to a mentor in Nashville. The older detective had taken a liking to Mitch right out of basic training and pushed him through the ranks until a heart attack forced Bishop behind a desk.
“What do you want, old man?” The old man part he said with six years of admiration for the man coating the words.
“Slide off that pretty little thing your fucking and listen close. I spent the last two hours directing the department off your trail and in the process uncovered some interesting details. You’re going to want to hear this.”
As one of Nashville’s most decorated detectives, when Bishop yelled smoke, Mitch felt the flames. “I’m listening.”
He slid his arm out from under Lacy and tucked the covers around her back. An odd feeling of comfort washed over him watching her sleep. The domestic feeling was all too soon doused with reality at the memory of taking her. Dominating her.
He stepped into his jeans and pulled the bedroom door, leaving it open a crack.
“Some small town hick-dick police chief called the PD yesterday asking some interesting questions about the credentials of one of our detectives.” Bishop blew out a breath. “Now I know that couldn’t be you because you promised the Admin you’d stay clear of the Wray murder case in Rebel Rapids.”
Mitch dunked a coffee pot under the kitchen faucet and twisted the tap on. He cleared his throat into the phone. “And this is ass-crack-of-dawn news worthy because?”
Bishop laughed dryly. “You’ve yet to shed the rook mentality, Kilpatrick. If I’d taken an early lunch and missed the call, you’d be turning in your badge right about now. Obstruction of justice ring any bells from Academy?”
When Mitch didn’t answer, Bishop continued.
“So, I thought to myself, what could make my number one detective get sloppy as hell in a week? I hope she’s worth it.”
Mitch poured water in the top of the coffee maker and slid the carafe under the dripper. He hadn’t been a rookie for nearly six years, but that never seemed to stop Bishop from taking a stab at him.
He tossed a glance back to the bedroom door, still cracked open just enough to make him lower his voice. “My sex life isn’t up for discussion right now. What did you find out about Wray?”
“I ran the evidence from the two Rebel Rapids murders you are not investigating through the national registry, looking for similarities with unsolved murders in the area. Same blue ropes. Same brand plastic tarps wrapped around their bodies. Same everything down to the forensics and corner reports.”
“But you felt the need to call, so…”
“Modus operandi.” Bishop’s voice made a harsh, high-pitched sound. “The first girl from Rebel killed two months ago has a head injury, blunt force trauma, but that’s not what killed her.”
“So she fell trying to escape?”
“That’s what I thought, too, but here’s the kicker. Her finger nails were clean.”
“Scrubbed?” Mitch cradled the phone between his shoulder and his cheek and spooned grounds into the coffee maker. “What kind of solvent?”
“Bleach.” Bishop’s voice lowered. “Wray used a straight sodium hypochlorite concoction.”
Mitch crossed the kitchen and stepped into the sunken den. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more?”
“I found a deleted report from the month before your cousin’s murder. The MOs match up. The report had been wiped by a Lieutenant Helms from the Rebel Rapids PD and approved by none other than your bass-ackwards Chief Andrews.”
Mitch rubbed the back of his neck. Officer Helms never mentioned his father served for the PD. Come to think of it,
he’d never mentioned his father. “Reports get started and scrubbed all the time. What’s the point of this one?” Besides the relationship with Helms?
“I taught you better, Kilpatrick. Has that one-night stand already clouded your brain? Wray didn’t kill in Rebel Rapids until Sadie. The closest he’d come was Chattanooga, seventy-five miles in the wrong direction from his established pattern. At the time of the failed report, the chief had no reason to suspect Wray would come anywhere near him, so why would anyone from Rebel mistakenly file a report? It’s not like you’d accidently type the name Richard Wray into a computer and start a report. And a month before your cousin’s murder in the same town? Something smells in Rebel and it starts with that chief friend of yours.”
Mitch’s stomach hollowed and sunk. He grabbed the edge of the couch until his fingers turned white and pulled against it, stretching his arm muscles until his skin burned from the pressure. “Unless Sadie wasn’t his first victim in Rebel. Goddamnit! That bastard had kidnapped another girl before Sadie and someone covered it up.”
All he had to do was bait Lacy into spilling what she knew about her father’s role in that cover-up, and he could be into the biggest lead in the Wray case since it turned cold ten years ago. Nashville couldn’t ignore it when Chief Andrews went on trial for obstructing justice.
“That or someone’s working real hard to keep one of his kidnappings hidden. Three guesses who. But why? And it gets better. The lieutenant who originated the scrubbed report left the force three weeks after Sadie’s death.”
“Left or forced to resign? Any details on his current whereabouts?”
Bishop barked a laugh. “Sure. He should be easy enough find.”
Mitch grabbed an unopened envelope and a pen from a nearby desk. “Shoot.”
“8100 Denmark Road. Next to the First Baptist Church. He’s been dead for nine years. Apparent suicide.”
Mitch released the pen and pounded his fist into the small desk. Sadie wasn’t the first from Rebel. Another girl had been taken, and chances were, if someone went to such lengths to cover up the case, someone in Rebel knew enough to put Wray away for good. But who would protect a killer? Who had something to gain from Wray’s freedom? Who would cover up the abduction of a young girl unless they had someone to protect?
Confess (The Blue Line Series Book 1) Page 12
