by Mallory Kane
She held it a little closer to the window. Her pulse sped up. She squinted and looked at it from different angles, studying each separate strand of hair.
There was no question.
"Archer? There's more than one person's hair in this bag."
"More than one—what are you talking about?"
"Are you sure this sample didn't get mixed up with one of the others?"
"A good cop never excludes any possibility. But that bag was sealed at the scene. And the lab works on one piece of evidence at a time so mix-ups won't happen." He walked over to stand beside her.
She looked up at him. "I'd colored Celia's hair for her just a couple of days before—" She smiled sadly, thinking of her vivacious younger sister. Then the image was replaced by the picture she'd taken away with her from her mother's—Celia staring into space, her hair stringy and unwashed and her eyes dull.
Grief and anger washed over her. She renewed her vow not to rest until the Lock Rapist was brought to justice.
"Resa." Archer's voice intruded gently into her vengeful thoughts. He touched her hand. "You're crumpling the bag. Relax."
He ran a finger along her knuckles, a calming gesture that did anything but calm her. He'd caressed and kissed her knuckles last night. His kisses had started out light and tentative, as if he were as unsure as she about where it was leading.
But his every touch had broken down another layer of inhibition, until she would have been no more able to stop him than she could stop her own breath.
He was still talking and she was still staring at his hand.
"Resa?" He wrapped his fingers around hers and she realized she was trembling. "Calm down. We're going to get him. Now, tell me what you're talking about. What makes you think there are two samples in that bag?"
"I know there are. Look at this."
Instead of taking the bag, Archer moved closer, until his side brushed her shoulder.
She was wrapped in sensation—his hot, hard body, the faint scent of citrus, the calm promise of his low voice. The sensations combined, sending echoes of the night before tingling through her. He bent his head so close to hers that she felt her hair move.
"Show me."
To her dismay, her pulse sped up when his low, gruff voice rumbled in her ear. "Hold it so the sunlight hits it."
She touched his other hand to guide it. Her heart skipped. "Like that."
She clenched her jaw and forced herself to concentrate on the difference between the two locks of hair, rather than the difference between her hand and his larger, stronger one. The fact that they had made love last night was irrelevant. The fact that she wasn't sure she'd ever forget how he felt and smelled and moved had nothing to do with anything.
All she wanted from him was his help in catching the man who'd ruined her sister's life.
She lifted her head and moved slightly away from him. "Do you see the two different strands?"
"No." He turned the bag this way and that.
"Come on, Archer. They're totally different. If you put them under a microscope you'd see it right away. Whoever examined this lock of hair didn't look at the whole sample."
"The tech would have removed maybe ten to twenty hairs. He did put them under a microscope. If there are two different hairs in this bag, he missed it. So show me the different hairs."
"They're all on this side. He cut a thick lock of hair from Celia. All this—" she pointed "—is hers. And these smaller strands right here are not."
"Here?" He slipped his hand from under hers and traced his finger along the plastic bag where the slightly darker strands of hair lay on top of her sister's.
"Yes, that's it."
"I don't see that much difference. That's not just— you know—highlights?"
"Trust me. I know my sister's hair." She took a deep breath and was hit again by his fresh, citrusy scent. Like his nearness, his scent stirred her and brought all the feelings from the night before washing over her. His warm satiny skin against hers. His fierce, tender lovemaking.
Damn it, Reset! She had to stop acting like a love-struck teenager. She was going to be in big trouble if she couldn't forget that lapse in judgment on both their parts.
She cleared her throat. At the same time Archer took a step backward. Had he felt the same yearning as she had? And the same instantaneous regret?
She gave herself a mental shake. Concentrate.
"Celia's hair is very fine and she's been coloring it for years. These other strands are totally different. First of all, they're a lot coarser than Celia's. Second, that hair has not been colored. And third, if you even need more evidence, Celia's hair is straight. The untreated hair is wavy."
She looked up at him. "The rapist left two people's hair at the crime scene."
Archer took the bag from her and looked at it. He was sure she knew what she was talking about. She was a woman, after all, and she obviously knew her sister's hair. But he still couldn't see much difference.
He turned the bag over. He knew those initials— both sets. They belonged to the crime scene investigator and the lab tech. Both of them were men. Both were good at their jobs. Very good. But if a female had processed the scene, if a female lab tech had studied this sample, would they have spotted the differences on sight? Would a woman have been more likely to notice the two different colors that he couldn't see?
"The locks of hair from the first two attacks were analyzed. There were no usable results. We had nothing to compare them to, except each other, and hair from the other victims. Once we discovered that the lock of hair at each rape was from the previous victim, there was no other useful information to be gained."
"How did they check this hair against Celia's?"
"We cut a lock of hair from each victim and bagged it separately." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Now we need to go back and examine the hair that was left at each scene. Maybe he leaves hairs from all his victims, and we missed that."
"These hairs are only from one person. I'd bet on it. And I'll bet every single sample has a few of these." She looked up at him. "They're all going to match."
Archer raised his eyebrows.
"Think about it. There's some reason he takes a lock of hair and leaves one at every single crime scene. And it's got to have something to do with whoever this different strand belongs to."
"You could be right." He nodded, then rubbed his neck and arched it. "Hold it."
"What is it?"
"What about the first crime scene?"
"He left a lock of hair at his first attack?"
He looked up at her. "Yeah. We figured that it wasn't his first attack. We figured there were other victims out there who hadn't come forward. Hell, he could have attacked women in other cities. That first hair was never identified. Now I'm wondering if that first lock is the same as the few hairs you just found. Those hairs must be from someone important to him. They could be the common thread that connects him to all the victims."
He wanted to compliment her powers of observation, but he wasn't sure how she'd take it. He hadn't been very nice to her today. And then there was that other problem.
He was still reeling from last night and what he'd done. Just standing close to her for those few seconds while she showed him the hair had sent his blood racing. The memory of her supple, graceful body pressed against his had haunted him all morning.
He'd known from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her that she was going to disrupt his life. Then he'd gone and volunteered to protect her. To make it worse, he'd crossed the line. He'd compromised her by giving in to his raging attraction to her. Emotions and
hormones screwed with good judgment. What the hell had he been thinking?
"What about DNA?" she asked.
He took two steps backward and shook his head. "The hairs were cut. You can't get a DNA sample unless you have a root. But it's the same problem. We could gather DNA on the victims, but to what end?" His voice was gruff. He cleared his throat. "I'll take this over t
o the lab, and tell them to check the two different strands."
As he started to turn he caught her gaze. The look in her eyes made him realize what he'd just said. He muttered a curse. "I mean I'll ask one of the detectives if they'll do it."
He knew there was a reason he hadn't spent any time here since his retirement. It was hard as hell to remember that he wasn't in charge, wasn't even a detective anymore. He was nothing but a damn cripple. He flexed his hand then balled it into a fist, quelling the urge to slam it into something.
"Archer?"
He looked up and saw an unwanted compassion in her eyes.
"I'm sorry for what happened to you."
Anger and humiliation crashed down on him like a sudden thunderstorm. That was another reason he'd avoided people all this time. "I don't need your pity. You don't know anything about me."
"I know what you told me last night. I know how much you loved your wife. How devastating it was for you to lose your career."
He rounded on her, ignoring the alarm on her face. "Do you know that she wanted me to quit the force? Do you know that if I'd cared about what she wanted, none of this would have happened? She'd still be alive, and your sister might never have been attacked? You want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for her and your sister, and the women the Lock Rapist is going to attack in the future because I can't catch him."
Her face drained of color. "I wasn't—I didn't mean—" She clamped her mouth shut and shot him down with her green laser eyes.
"Never mind," she said coldly.
By the time Archer got back from explaining the situation to one of the detectives and watching him fill out the paperwork necessary to have all the hair samples reexamined, Clint had returned.
Resa was sitting at the table. She didn't look up when he came in. Clint was perched on the edge of the table near her. He stood when Archer opened the door.
Archer frowned at them. "What's going on?"
Resa kept her eyes on her hands.
Clint cleared his throat. "Good news."
Like hell, Archer thought.
"I've been given a couple of people from the Belle Meade precinct. The commissioner is ready to catch the Lock Rapist."
"Yeah?"
"I can free up a position to guard Resa. We'll put her in a hotel with two twelve-hour shifts guarding her."
So that was it. He studied Resa's bowed head, the tense line of her shoulders, her white-knuckled hands. She obviously wanted to be out of there. Why else wouldn't she look him in the eye?
Well, wasn't it what he wanted, too? Didn't he want her out of his house? Out of his life? From the very beginning she'd been a thorn in his side, with that stubborn tilt to her chin and those green eyes.
Maybe if she wasn't there so close to him, he could forget that the night before ever happened. He could go back to his hermit's existence.
"This what you want, Resa?"
She raised her head and reluctantly met his gaze. Her green eyes were wary, as if she didn't know what he might do.
"Well?"
"Isn't it what you want?" she threw back at him.
He glanced at Clint, who was watching them with a bewildered expression on his face. It was no wonder. Tension hung over the room like a rain cloud.
He considered her question. His house would be cavernous and silent without her there. He'd made sure it was that way. It was what he wanted—wasn't it?
She'd dropped her gaze back to her hands, giving him a chance to study her some more. She'd disrupted his existence, given him a reason to care, a reason to live—the last thing he'd wanted.
She'd filled his house and his life with light when all he'd wanted was darkness. He'd worked out a routine that suited him. He taught a few classes, occasionally saw some of the guys on the job when they came to the range. But when he couldn't take the world anymore, he could have his house all to himself, like a wounded animal slinking off to lick his wounds alone.
An unexpected pang arrowed through the middle of his chest. Alone.
He took a deep breath. "I think it's the best thing." He heard the harsh tone in his voice and felt Clint's disapproving gaze.
She nodded, then got up and walked around the table. "So Detective Banes, how soon can I meet my babysitter?"
"Right now." Clint held the door for her. She left without another word.
Archer turned toward the window, but he didn't see the parking lot or the tree-lined streets. All he could see were the photos of the Lock Rapist's victims. And they all had Resa's face.
Chapter Ten
Earl gnawed nervously at a ragged fingernail and looked at the clock on his dashboard. He'd been parked across the street from the police station for over four hours. He'd seen Banes leave and return, but Archer and Theresa were still in there.
Archer's car was parked near the front door of the police station. If he was there, then so was Theresa.
He was happy that so many people were spending so much time on him. Detectives, uniformed officers, crime scene investigators, TV reporters. His mom must be so proud. And then there were the women who would have trouble sleeping tonight and every night for a long time.
But he was hungry and tired. His muscles still ached and his head still hurt. And as if that wasn't enough, he had to pee.
He squirmed and tried to find a comfortable position. Damn it, if something didn't happen soon, his bladder was going to force him to abandon his surveillance.
The door to the police station opened. Earl tensed and slid down in his seat. A uniformed officer stood aside and a woman walked past him down the steps to a police car.
What the hell? Earl squinted at her. It was definitely Theresa Wade. He'd half expected the cops to try to fool him with a ringer—a policewoman used as a decoy.
But at least they realized he was too smart to be fooled that way. Earl had watched Theresa enough so that he knew how she walked, how she carried herself.
The thing that surprised him was that she was leaving without Archer following behind her like a pet dog. Where was the cop taking her? He opened the passenger-side door for her, then went around and got in on the driver's side.
As the black and white car pulled away from the curb Earl looked back at the station. What was going on with Archer? There was no way he'd let her go off without him.
Earl cranked his car and put it in gear as the cop car drove past.
After one last glance at the station, Earl pulled out and headed after Theresa. He checked the rearview mirror a couple of times, but by the time he had to turn left to follow the car, Archer still hadn't appeared.
He couldn't believe Archer was letting Theresa leave without him, even if she was with a cop. From the moment Archer had realized that Earl had been in her apartment, he hadn't let her out of his sight.
Earl would have bet money that Archer would never trust her safety to anyone else, especially now that there had been another attack. But for some reason, he had.
Earl tailed the cop car. He didn't have time to worry about Archer right now. He couldn't afford to lose track of Theresa.
The cop drove toward downtown and stopped at a high-rise hotel.
A hotel. They were putting her in protective custody. Why now? Archer had taken her home with him to protect her. Now suddenly he was letting her go off without him? It didn't make sense, especially after what Earl had seen last night.
Hey, maybe that was it. Maybe the lovebirds had had a fight. Would that make Archer let her go off with someone else? Earl eased up closer to the cop car.
He might as well quit racking his brain over something he wasn't going to figure out. It didn't matter why Archer had sent Theresa away with an officer— just that he had.
A tingling excitement began to build inside him. Maybe he could get to her, now that she was away from Archer. His muscles began to twitch as they tightened in anticipation.
It was only a matter of time now.
Archer rubbed his wet hair with a towel. The shower ha
dn't helped much. It felt good to be clean, and the hot water had relaxed him a little. But his gut was still tied up in knots over the latest attack.
He flipped on the bedroom light and froze.
His bed was made. The sheets were smoothed and the bedspread was folded neatly across the foot.
Resa. She'd made his bed. His chest tightened.
Looking at the bed where they'd spent the night, he grimaced. He'd acted like a total jerk after Clint's call this morning, snapping at her to get up and get dressed.
He hadn't had sex in a hell of a long time, but he did remember how to treat a woman, and that wasn't it.
He pushed his fingers through his damp hair as he tried to empty his mind of the memories that floated around him. Her smooth skin, the soft nape of her neck, the taste of her.
His body started to react to his thoughts. He clenched his jaw as he pulled on pajama pants and jerked back the sheet. He lay down and threw an arm over his eyes. But it didn't help. His brain was still in overdrive.
"Relax, damn it," he whispered. "Get her out of your head." Turning over, he grabbed the pillow from the other side of the bed and buried his nose in it— for about a half second.
"Hell!" he muttered, sitting up. He curbed the urge to throw the pillow across the room. Instead, he brought it to his nose again.
His senses went on full alert, just as they had the first time. But this time so did his body. He breathed in the elusive scent that lingered on the pillow. It smelled like melons and sunshine. It was different from anything he'd ever smelled before. It was Resa's scent, and it acted on him like an aphrodisiac. If he didn't do something right away, he was going to have a problem to take care of.
With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and propped his forearms on his knees. He shook his head. He wasn't about to do anything to sully the memory of last night.
All right, now he was making way too much of it. It was sex. No big deal. She was gone now.
The hell she was. She might be in a hotel downtown, but her unique evocative scent lingered, haunting him. He had a feeling it would never fade from his home, his bed or his head.
