He heard the pride in his voice as Keara’s gaze finally swung back to him. There was something pensive in her gaze, something that made him want to lean across the table and get a little closer.
“Can I get you anything?”
The nasally voice startled Jax and he realized the waitress was standing next to their table.
“Just a coffee would be great.”
“Make it two, please,” Keara said.
“And for her?” The waitress nodded at his dog, then smiled. “Does she want a bowl of water? Or we can bring her a dog c-o-o-k-i-e.”
Woof! Patches’s head appeared over the top of the table, swiveled toward the waitress.
The waitress laughed. “I see she spells. Okay, two coffees and a dog cookie it is!”
When she left, Jax returned his attention to Keara. But whatever he’d seen in her eyes was gone now, replaced by a seriousness that told him they were about to get to work.
“So the woman who was murdered seven years ago? Celia Harris? Apparently, Juan, my husband, and his partner, Fitz, had a possible suspect. I mean, they looked at a lot of people and I guess this guy didn’t stand out more than anyone else, at least not initially. But then, a week after my husband was murdered, Fitz went to talk to him again. I think it was kind of a distraction assignment, honestly, to reinterview any witnesses or suspects that Juan had talked to alone. You see, Fitz wanted to be part of the investigation into Juan’s death and the chief wouldn’t let him.”
She didn’t have to tell him that she’d also tried to insert herself into the investigation of her husband’s murder. Just talking about it was making her eyes narrow and her lips tighten.
“What happened to your husband, Keara?”
“He was murdered.” Her expression became even more pinched. “In our own backyard.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She straightened, and he saw her game face come on. “It was never solved, which is why...” She took a visible breath, shook her head and started over, her voice calmer. “So about a week before he was killed, Juan went to talk to Rodney Brown. His car was pictured close to the scene near the time of Celia’s murder. Fitz said Juan returned from that interview without feeling like he’d gained much, but the guy lied about the car being near the scene. And when Fitz went back—a week after my husband’s throat was slit—the place was totally cleared out.”
Jax felt himself cringe at Keara’s description of how her husband had died. He could tell from the anger and pain wrapped up in those few words that she’d been the one to find him. An ache formed in his chest as he watched her, trying to be clinical. How much worse must it have been, as an officer of the law, knowing the person who’d killed him had gotten away with it?
“Fitz spent a lot of time trying to track down Rodney Brown. Apparently, he worked as an orderly at a hospital in Houston, but he just stopped showing up. His work history before that was a little spotty, so it wasn’t totally out of character. And his family told Fitz that he was flighty and not great about staying in touch. Back then none of them were all that surprised that he’d just cleared out of his apartment. Fitz has been checking for signs of him over the years, even got a warrant to watch his credit report to see if he popped up somewhere else in the country. But there’s been nothing.”
“So you think he killed Celia Harris and your husband, too?”
“It’s pretty suspicious timing to disappear.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“And now there’s a bomb here with the same symbol. But...” She frowned, shook her head.
“You’re thinking the same thing the FBI is,” Jax concluded.
Her eyes narrowed at him, but she held off on saying anything as the waitress dropped off their coffees, and Patches started greedily chewing on her dog biscuit.
After the woman was gone, Keara demanded, “What do they think?”
“They don’t know about your husband. No one from Houston mentioned that angle. And I’m guessing Rodney Brown’s name is in the file, but he didn’t stand out. The main thing is that—”
“A violent killer—someone who obviously enjoys the kill itself—is unlikely to become a bomber?”
“Pretty much,” Jax confirmed. “You’re right that the symbols are eerily similar. But if it’s the same person, why a bomb? And why here? Why now, so many years after the murder in Texas?”
* * *
FITZ WAS RIGHT. Rodney Brown was a ghost.
Keara leaned back on her couch and took a sip of red wine. It had been another long day, full of questions from her citizens that she couldn’t answer, full of worry about a case she wasn’t even supposed to be investigating. She wasn’t usually much of a drinker, especially while she was pondering a case, but tonight she was on her second glass.
Maybe that was why she reached for her wedding album, instead of returning to her laptop. In those first months after Juan’s death, she’d sobbed over the pages. But since moving to Alaska, she’d tucked it into the corner of her bookshelf and hadn’t opened it again.
Now she ran her finger over the shape of Juan’s face, frozen in a slightly nervous smile as he waited at the altar for her. When she’d first met him in that Houston roll call, seen the way his shoulders slumped and his mouth tightened at hearing he’d be partnered with her, she’d been sure they’d never be friends. But after a year of tough calls, patrolling a dangerous area together, they’d developed a mutual respect that had slowly blossomed into more.
Now he was gone. The constant, overwhelming grief she’d felt in that first year after he died had slowly dulled into something she could push to the back of her mind. But with each day that passed since she’d seen that blasted symbol, the gnawing ache was returning, along with the certainty that she’d failed Juan.
Fitz was right. She’d played by the rules in Houston, let her fellow detectives handle the case because she’d been sure they’d find justice for one of their own. And because it had been hard enough to function at all during those early days and months, let alone constantly look at pictures and details of what had happened to Juan. When the case had gone cold, she should have taken it up herself and damn the rules, damn the consequences. Instead, she’d run away.
Since coming to Alaska, she’d followed the rules, too. She’d tried to be a by-the-book chief. But not anymore.
She took another long sip of wine and closed the album, pushed it away from her. Tipping back the rest of her glass, she yanked the laptop into her lap and stared at the notes she’d compiled on Rodney Brown.
The guy was a loser. He’d had a handful of arrests as a minor for getting into fights. More of the same as an adult, usually bar fights. Plus a single sexual assault charge that had later been dropped. From what Keara could tell, it was more because the victim didn’t want to go through a trial than for lack of evidence.
Serial killers were often sexually motivated. But Celia Harris hadn’t been sexually assaulted. Fitz’s investigation had never turned up any similar kills. Although Rodney Brown clearly had a violent streak and a problem with women, there were no signs he’d ever crossed paths with Celia Harris. And he didn’t seem sophisticated enough to have pulled off the risky abduction and then committed such a violent murder without leaving behind useful evidence.
Juan’s murder had been almost professional. A quick hit and then the killer had disappeared. No one in her neighborhood had noticed anyone who didn’t belong or seen anyone running away at the time of the murder. Yes, it made sense that a violent killer of women who thought the police were onto him might try and take out the detective who’d questioned him.
But Rodney Brown had only been questioned once. After a few weeks of silence, would he seek Juan out and murder him? The closer she looked at the details of the case, the more unlikely that idea seemed. Taking all of the pieces together, she understood why Fitz had decided the tw
o weren’t connected.
Except the timing was pretty hard to ignore. And the fact that Rodney Brown had so completely dropped off the map suggested a sophistication that perhaps he’d hidden in the rest of his life.
As for the bomb, sure, anyone could dig up the basics on the internet. But pulling it off was another thing. And no matter how she looked at it, the long gap in time and the change in MO made it pretty unlikely that all three crimes were connected.
Cursing, she tossed her laptop onto the couch beside her. Tears of frustration blurred her vision, but she blinked them back.
Yes, cold cases were harder than fresh investigations. The adage of the “first forty-eight hours” was true. Over time, memories faded, witnesses forgot, evidence that had been missed the first time often disappeared for good. But that didn’t make them impossible.
Keara pictured the symbol from Anderson’s phone, with the series of interconnecting loops, drawn onto the bomb with a thick black marker. Different enough from the symbol over Celia’s body in that alley, spray-painted onto the stucco wall of the adjacent building in bloodred. But the design itself was the same, the loops that looked almost childish. If all of this was connected, if she had a shot at solving her husband’s murder, that symbol was the key.
The melodic ring of her doorbell startled her, made her glance at the credenza in the corner where she’d stashed her weapon. Few people knew exactly where she lived. Even fewer would visit.
She considered ignoring it, but curiosity got the better of her and she strode to the door. When she peered through the peephole, there was Jax on her front porch, shivering in a dark coat and looking tired. Patches was at his side, her head swiveling from him to the door, as if she knew Keara had stepped up to the other side.
It had been a long time since she’d felt attracted to someone. Sure, she’d had brief flashes of awareness in Alaska when she crossed paths with someone, but nothing that lasted more than a few minutes. With Jax, the attraction seemed to grow each time she saw him, with each new detail she noticed. The surprising muscles in his arms when he’d stripped down to a T-shirt in the hotel lobby, the intuitiveness of his gaze when she was holding something back, the hint of a dimple that popped on his right cheek when he gave a full-blown grin, usually at Patches.
More than simple attraction, though, she felt a connection with Jax. Some invisible pull, a desire to simply sit beside him and soak in his presence. She’d tried to ignore the feeling, but right now she felt that pull even more than usual.
“It’s the wine,” she muttered, resting her forehead against the door, anxious at such a simple decision. Open the door and let him in? Or pretend not to be home?
Woof!
A smile burst free and Keara had to smother the giggle that wanted to follow. Any man who could inspire such loyalty from a dog like Patches had to be a good one. And maybe the fact that he lived so far away was a plus. Anchorage was definitely past the point of being practical for a relationship, so that alone should avoid any awkwardness when it was time for him to leave.
He might be FBI, but he wasn’t a law-enforcement officer. He wasn’t in the thick of danger, wasn’t someone she’d have to constantly worry about.
Not that it really mattered. She didn’t want anything serious. Not now. Probably never again.
But a fling with a handsome, intelligent, sensitive man? Maybe it was time.
Taking a deep breath, Keara opened the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The door swung open and Keara swayed forward, her gaze locked on his and lips parted. He’d never seen her hair down before, but right now it hung long, silky and loose, perfectly straight over her shoulders. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a well-worn long-sleeved T-shirt that looked soft to the touch and showed off curves her police uniform hid. Even her expression was less guarded, softer.
“Come in,” she said, her voice huskier than usual.
Patches bounded inside at the invitation, but warning bells went off in Jax’s head, despite the desire stirring in his belly.
He could see it in her low-lidded gaze. She thought he was here for a totally different reason than the agreed-upon plan to investigate together. Of course, she’d never given him her address, never invited him over. It had been foolish to show up without calling. Especially at nine o’ clock at night.
But after yet another day of nonstop visits with victims and family members, feeling no closer to bringing any of them real closure, he’d just wanted to see Keara. To sit across from her and watch the way her lips pursed when she was deep in thought, see the determination in her gaze and posture when she thought she was onto something. To soak up her presence and soothe his own frustrated nerves.
So he’d managed to get her home address out of Luna’s police chief, under the pretense that he was keeping her apprised of the investigation, and she was keeping them informed of anything suspicious in Desparre.
It had been stupid and selfish, he realized now as Keara raised her eyebrows at him, the corners of her lips twisting up in an expression that looked like a dare. Red wine stained her lips with a hint of purple.
He tried to come up with an excuse to leave, but then she licked those lips and he was moving forward without conscious intent.
She pushed the door closed behind him, leaning against him as she did it, and the brief contact made his mouth go dry.
This close, he could see the ring of slightly lighter brown at the center of her coffee-colored irises. He could smell a rich cabernet, subtle enough that he doubted she’d drank a lot. And it wasn’t just her well-worn T-shirt that was soft; it was also her skin.
She blinked up at him, her chest rising and falling faster, and he could feel his own breathing pick up in response.
He’d been drawn to her from the first day they’d met. So when she swayed forward again—or had he leaned toward her?—he ignored the voice in his head telling him this was the wrong time. Threading his fingers through hers, he tugged gently and then she was pressing against him, up on her tiptoes.
The first contact of her lips sent a spark through his body like he’d given himself an electric shock. Then he closed his mouth around her bottom lip and tasted the cabernet she’d been drinking.
She let out a noise that was half-sigh, half-moan and pushed higher on her toes, her free hand tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. Then her tongue was in his mouth and her kisses turned fast and frantic.
Jax wrapped his free hand around her back, molding her body to his, and his heart rate skyrocketed. He had a solid seven inches on her and yet somehow, the fit was perfect.
Woof!
Patches’s bark registered in the back of his mind as Keara kissed him harder.
Then Patches let out several more, higher pitched barks.
The insistent sound returned him to reality, helped his mind take the lead back over from his body. He pulled away slightly, trying to catch his breath as he stared over Keara’s head and down the hall.
Patches stood in Keara’s hallway, leaning slightly forward, as if ready to bark again or run toward them.
Unwinding his arm from around Keara’s back, Jax tried to calm his pounding heart. The scent of her—a mix of that wine with something sweeter and more subtle—invaded his senses, making it hard to focus, especially when she leaned in again.
He stepped back, quickly enough that she stumbled toward him before righting herself.
“This probably isn’t a good idea,” he forced himself to say.
Keara blinked at him a few times, then that professional mask slipped back over her features. But not before he saw a flash of hurt in her eyes.
She was as attracted to him as he was to her. But he’d be a terrible psychologist if he didn’t recognize that they were both acting on it for the wrong reasons.
Flings weren’t his thing. They never had been, but at thi
rty-eight years old, he felt way past them. And even if Keara was emotionally available, she lived four hundred miles away. He might be here for a month or a break might come in the case tomorrow and that fast, he’d be on a flight home.
Besides, Keara hadn’t kissed him because of that attraction. She’d kissed him because she was emotional and frustrated, probably over the thread-thin connection between her husband’s death and the bombing.
He took another step away from her, as the idea of her kissing him because she missed her dead husband cooled the rest of his desire.
“You came to talk about the case?” Keara asked, her voice as detached and remote as the expression on her face.
When he nodded, she spun and headed into the interior of her house. “Come on, then.”
As soon as she reached Patches, the dog turned to walk with her. Keara stroked Patches’s head as they strode away, his dog’s tail wagging.
Running a hand through his hair, straightening the spots where Keara had tugged and tangled it, he followed. With every step, he took a deep breath, trying not to watch the sway of her hips as she led him into her living room.
It was exactly what he would have expected her personal space to be. Cozy, with a fireplace centered in the room. Comfortable, with a couch that looked perfect for curling up on. There was even a wool blanket thrown over the back of it. And peaceful, with big curtained windows diagonal from the fireplace that had to open to a spectacular view of the forest behind her.
There was an open bottle of wine and a single empty wineglass on the live-edge wood coffee table. Beside it, a laptop and a wedding album.
A mix of regret and pain—some for her, some for himself—tensed his chest and then dropped to his stomach.
Her gaze went from him to the album, then back again. “If there’s a connection between all of this, it’s that symbol. We need to know what it means.” Her expression gave nothing away, but her voice was slightly shaky as she sank onto the couch. “You’ve got a psychology background, right? Any ideas?”
Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 42
