Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Carol Ericson

  Anderson shot him a look, but Jax ignored it. Technically, telling a victim they could call in the middle of the night was dangerous territory. He’d known Victim Specialists who’d fallen into roles halfway between personal therapist and best friend by being too available. But he worried more about not helping enough than being overwhelmed by a victim’s needs.

  As Jax and Patches started to follow the agents out of the room, Gabi’s voice, more tentative than before, reached him.

  “You’re going to catch the person who did this, right?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” he assured her. “The FBI brought us in all the way from Anchorage because Agents Nez and Lync, and their colleagues, have a lot of experience. This case is the only thing they’re investigating right now. It’s our biggest priority.”

  “That’s not an answer,” she said, more grief than anger in her words.

  He nodded soberly. “I’m not going to make you a promise I can’t guarantee. But I’ll tell you this—we’re putting everything we have into this investigation. And when it comes to finding bombers, the FBI is very good. I’d bet on us.”

  He stepped a little closer, wanting her to read on his face how much he believed it. “I can also promise to I’ll keep you informed. I believe we’ll get this person. You let us worry about that. You focus on getting better. Deal?”

  She swiped a hand across her face, wiping away a rush of tears he pretended not to see. “Okay.”

  He gave her an encouraging smile, then followed Ben and Anderson into the hall.

  It wasn’t until they were outside the hospital that Ben halted suddenly, turning to face him and making Patches stop short. “You want to act like these victims’ personal therapist, that’s your business. I know you’re good at your job, so I’m not going to question your methods. But Anderson and I know what we’re doing, too. So let us do our jobs.”

  Jax put his hands up, pasted an innocent look on his face.

  “We asked you to come along because it makes the victims more comfortable. They connect with you and it reduces the stress of feeling like they need to give us information or we won’t find the person who killed someone they love. Or the stress of having to relive what happened to them. We’re happy to have you with us. But you’re not an agent, Jax. You need to remember that.”

  Ben shook his head and spun around again, striding for the SUV.

  Anderson gave Jax a sympathetic look, but he didn’t disagree with his partner, just followed.

  Patches stared up at him, reading the tension, and Jax stroked her soft fur. “You did a good job, Patches. I’m the one who’s in trouble.”

  She shifted, pressing all sixty pounds against him. She wasn’t that big, but she was strong.

  He laughed, giving her an extra pat on the head. “Thanks, Patches. Let’s get going.”

  She strode alongside him, her gait full of puppy energy. Sometimes, he forgot that at a year old, technically she still was a puppy. Despite the tough job he’d given her, despite the difficult start in life she’d had—being tossed onto the street to fend for herself at a few weeks old—she was always cheerful.

  The perfect fit for a job like this. But sometimes the job still got to her.

  Right now it was getting to him. And it wasn’t talking to the victims, as hard as that was.

  He’d come to the FBI from private therapy to help stop perpetrators before they could become repeat offenders. He knew he made a difference here. But despite his training, despite how much he loved what he did, sometimes being a Victim Specialist felt too far on the sidelines.

  Sometimes, it just didn’t feel like he was doing enough.

  * * *

  THE STATION WAS empty and dark.

  Normally, Keara would be gone by now. Actually, if things were normal, she probably wouldn’t be working at all on a Sunday. But with worried citizens needing reassurance, and a town that needed extra vigilance because of a nearby bombing without an obvious motive, she’d come in early and stayed late.

  Heading home didn’t mean she was off the clock. In a small town like Desparre, there was no such thing as truly off the clock. If something happened after the station was officially closed for the night, the officer—or chief—who was closest to the action would get the first call.

  Tonight she didn’t want to get on the road. Didn’t feel like making the relatively short drive to her house.

  She’d been distracted all day, moving on autopilot. In a job like hers, that was dangerous. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to focus.

  After she’d returned home from Luna last night, images of her life with Juan had taunted her sleep. She’d woken on a scream, on the memory of returning home from work that horrible day.

  She’d been exhausted, frustrated by a case she hardly remembered, one she’d subsequently solved. She’d wanted nothing more than to settle on the couch in front of the TV with a delivery pizza and a bottle of red wine. To simply snuggle with her husband and forget the argument they’d been having on replay every few weeks.

  The house had been lit up, the front door locked, no sign that anything was wrong. She’d walked inside and headed straight for the shower, a holdover habit from her days on patrol. Forensics said the timing wouldn’t have mattered, that Juan had been dead before she even arrived home, but the shower still bothered her. The fact that she hadn’t suspected for a second that anything was wrong, that she’d had no idea the man she’d loved so deeply was already gone.

  And then, afterward, the hint of annoyance when she’d walked through the house and couldn’t find him. The sigh she’d heaved as she’d realized the back door was open, that he hadn’t bothered to come in from the garden when she’d arrived. The way she’d desperately tried to suck in gulps of air once she’d fallen to the ground beside him, but her lungs still screamed, telling her she wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

  The investigation had determined that someone had hopped the fence into their backyard while Juan was relaxing on a lawn chair. They’d slipped up behind him and slit his throat.

  If he’d realized anyone was there, the knowledge had come too late. There were no defense marks on his arms or hands. No awkward angle to the slice across his neck, which might have happened if he’d tried to turn at the last minute.

  She hoped it meant that it had all happened too fast for him to suffer. But even an instant of pain, even a flash of insight that everything he’d fought for in his life was over, was too much.

  It was too much for her, too. For six years being in Alaska had kept the memories at a survivable distance.

  Now the bombing was bringing it all back. But if the person who’d killed Juan had come here and set off a bomb, why had he chosen such a different crime?

  Fitz hadn’t sent her the case file from Celia Harris’s murder yet, but if that killer was responsible for the bomb, too, something drastic had changed. She’d seen the evidence photos from Celia’s murder; the whole office had. They’d been gruesome enough, with such an unlikely victim, that Juan and Fitz had consulted briefly with the rest of the detectives.

  Celia hadn’t been killed in the alley where she’d been found, and her killer had taken his time murdering her. Although Keara’s cases tended to be the standard sort—motivated by more obvious reasons like greed, jealousy or anger—Houston wasn’t immune to serial killers. She’d understood immediately why Juan and Fitz had thought there’d be more murders.

  But a bombing seven years later? Even if the bomber had stood nearby and watched the pain and death his handiwork caused, was it really the same as wielding a knife? She’d never heard of a violent killer becoming a bomber.

  Maybe she was reaching, grasping at a similar symbol because she still needed answers, despite how far she’d run.

  The crackle of the intercom from outside the entrance of the building, followed by a familiar voice aski
ng “Keara? Er-Chief Hernandez?” startled her.

  The distinctive voice made goose bumps prick her arms. Keara rubbed them away as she stood and strode to the front of the station, swinging the door wide.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  Woof! Patches answered, making a smile break through the mask of competence and calm that Keara used automatically on the job.

  “Yours is the only civilian car in the lot.”

  He’d noticed what car she was driving? She studied him more closely, taking in the focused stare belied by a relaxed stance. Maybe psychologists were more like police officers than she’d thought, both needing to be observant and analytical.

  “You have news on the bombing?” As she asked it, she realized the only reason he’d tell her in person was if it was connected to her past. Bracing her hand on the open door frame, she asked, “Is it connected to my husband’s death?”

  “What?” Jax’s too-serious expression morphed into concern as he took a step closer.

  Too late, she remembered that he knew her husband had investigated a murder where the symbol was found, but not much more. He didn’t know anything about Rodney Brown, or the fact that her husband’s murder had never been solved. Or even the fact that her husband’s death had been a murder.

  She took a step back, losing the stability of holding on to the door frame, but also escaping Jax’s cinnamony scent. She didn’t know if it was aftershave or cologne or if he just liked to mainline chai, but it was the sort of scent she wanted to keep breathing in.

  It was distracting. He was distracting.

  Something bumped her leg and Keara looked down, finding Patches there. The dog had followed her inside. Jax was coming, too, but moving more slowly.

  Keara kept her gaze on Patches, petting the dog while she tried to come up with a way to redirect Jax, a way to avoid talking about what had happened to Juan.

  “I don’t have anything new to share about the bombing,” Jax said, his voice slow and soft. “And Anderson is still waiting on that file from Houston PD. Is there more you need to tell me? Some other connection we should investigate?”

  When she didn’t immediately answer, he put his hand under her elbow.

  The contact startled her, warmth from his hand making her realize how cold the rest of her body felt. She jerked her gaze back up to his. “Maybe. I’ll know more once I get a look at that case file.”

  Jax stared at her, his dark brown eyes hypnotic. Finally, he nodded, stepping just slightly closer.

  She had to tilt her head back to hold eye contact and she put a warning in her gaze. She liked Jax, but she’d been a police officer too long not to see what was coming. He was trying to make a connection, sympathize with her so she’d trust him enough to tell him what he needed to know.

  A slight smile tilted his lips and Keara wondered if she needed to put a different kind of “back off” vibe out there. Nerves fluttered in her chest and she put it down to how long it had been since she’d had to let anyone down easy. Since she was their police chief, thankfully, people here mostly considered her off-limits as a woman.

  “I’m not an agent.”

  His words were so far from what she’d expected to hear that it took her a few extra seconds to digest them.

  “And you have no jurisdiction in Luna,” he continued.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to take a step backward and let him know his closeness affected her. “And?”

  “The case you talked about feels psychologically different—the MO, the location, everything. But I can’t get that symbol out of my head. It might have been an accident that we were able to recover it on the bomb, but it wasn’t an accident that the bomber made it. It means something to him. That suggests the cases are connected somehow. I can’t let this go. And since you’re waiting on a case file you really shouldn’t be requesting, I’m guessing you can’t, either.”

  Keara frowned, trying to keep her expression neutral as Patches nudged her leg, looking for attention. Despite all the memories that had resurfaced tonight, she couldn’t help but smile at the dog, with her tiny matching brown spots at the top of each eyebrow, and bigger spots on her muzzle and chest. Keara silently pet Patches again as she waited for Jax to continue.

  “I think we should work together,” Jax finished, staring at her expectantly. “Quietly, on the side. If we come up with anything, we share it with the agents.”

  It was a mistake for a lot of reasons.

  Keeping information from the investigating agents—no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential—could be the difference that prevented the case from being solved. Besides, if she and Jax worked outside the official team, they wouldn’t have all of the information.

  After this was over, Jax would go back to Anchorage, but she still had to live in this community. She’d have to answer to her citizens if something went wrong, and she’d lose the support of their closest neighboring town, too.

  Then there was Jax himself. Although she had no concerns when it came to her self-control around the handsome Victim Specialist, she couldn’t deny that he ignited a tiny flicker of attraction whenever he was near.

  Juan had been gone for seven years. She wasn’t totally closed off to the idea of moving on someday. But it didn’t feel like the time, not even for a fling. Not if this case could be the key to solving his murder.

  “Okay,” she agreed, the word bursting free before she could hold it back. “Let’s work together.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Something was wrong.

  Jax could see it through the window of the tiny diner on the outskirts of Desparre, somewhere Keara had told him they were less likely to attract attention. It had been an hour drive for him after spending the day all over Luna with Ben and Anderson, talking to victims and families. He’d left discouraged and exhausted, with the bruises on his back and legs aching, but judging from the unguarded torment on her face, Keara’s day had been worse.

  He pictured the look on her face yesterday when she’d asked if the bombing was connected to her husband’s death. That meant her husband had been murdered—and presumably, that the murder had never been solved. He’d desperately wanted to ask about it, but he couldn’t turn off years of working as a psychologist. It had been the wrong time. But maybe today would be different.

  “Come on, Patches,” he said, leading the way into the diner. Keara had told him that the owner was low-key and didn’t mind letting working dogs inside.

  True to her promise, the diner was mostly empty and the waitress who nodded a greeting just cooed “aww” when she spotted Patches.

  By the time Jax joined Keara at her booth, she looked serious and in control. The ability to mask her emotions that fast was probably a necessary skill for a police chief. But it still surprised him. And if he was being honest with himself, he was a little disappointed that she felt the need to hide from him.

  You barely know her, he reminded himself. Yes, people usually opened up to him faster, probably because knowing how to reach people was a job requirement he couldn’t just turn off outside work. And yes, last night they’d agreed to work together, so he’d expected more honesty. But mostly, he was just intrigued by her. He had no idea how long he’d have to get to know her before the case was solved and he had to go back to Anchorage.

  “Is anything wrong?” Jax asked, keeping his voice neutral.

  Patches took the more direct route. She went to Keara’s side of the booth and put her head on the seat.

  From the surprise and amusement on Keara’s face, Patches had looked up at Keara with her soft puppy eyes, a tactic that rarely failed.

  The smile twitching at the corners of Keara’s lips burst into a true grin as she pet Patches. “She really knows how to put on the charm, doesn’t she? Is that something you taught her when you trained her to work for the FBI?”

&
nbsp; “Nah, she came by that naturally. I was biking home from work one day and—”

  “You biked to work in Anchorage? Must have been summer.”

  “This was almost a year ago. I was working in DC then. Getting to and from FBI headquarters took forever in traffic, so I bought a bike. Anyway, I was on my way home and I saw something moving in the bushes and then this tiny little puppy jumped out. She gave me this look like she wanted me to take her home.”

  He’d had to swerve his bike, had almost tipped it. But he’d always felt like she’d been waiting for him to come along.

  Growing up, he’d had a dog, so he’d known instantly that Patches was too young to be away from her mother. But she’d been totally alone, so he’d scooped her up, walked his bike the rest of the way home and then taken her to a vet.

  Keara’s smile curled downward. “Someone left her out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  She shook her head, still petting Patches. “Kids and animals,” she muttered. “Those are the worst calls, because they’re trusting, relying on someone to care for them. Not that I want to get called to any scene where someone is hurt, but at least as an adult, you’ve seen enough of the world to know. If you’re paying attention, there are threats everywhere.”

  She was staring at his dog when she spoke, letting Jax study her more closely. He’d worked with law enforcement long enough to know how terrible their jobs could be. He wondered how being a chief in Desparre compared to being a detective in Houston. The latter was surely bloodier, but the former put a lot of responsibility on her shoulders.

  Deciding to keep the conversation light, he continued, “It’s lucky I found Patches when I did. The vet thought she was about six weeks old. But she was feisty and determined from the start. I’d been working for the FBI for two and a half years by then and there are a few Victim Specialists who have therapy dogs in DC. I immediately thought she’d be good at it. She officially started at six months. Youngest dog they’ve ever used.”