Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Carol Ericson

  Jax stared back at her, all his worry over her home being targeted fading into the background as he remembered the first time he’d seen her at the bomb site. Then the expression on her face when she’d identified that symbol for them. A symbol that, as far as they could find, hadn’t appeared on a crime scene in Alaska until the Luna bombing.

  “I think we were right from the beginning,” he realized. “I think the bomber is connected to your husband’s murder.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I think all of the cases are connected,” Jax said, the theory gaining strength in his mind as he said it out loud. “I think we just found the missing motivation.”

  “What do you mean?” Keara asked.

  “I think the missing motivation is you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dread mingled with fury and residual adrenaline as Keara stared at Jax. The excitement in his gaze told her that he thought his new theory was right.

  “How could I be the motivation for these bombings?” Keara asked. “I didn’t have a close relationship with any of the victims—unless you count the fact that Nate works for me. I wasn’t even there when the Luna bomb went off. And if he wanted to target me in Desparre, he could have come out here earlier, planted the bomb at my house.”

  The thought that the bomber knew where she lived, that he could have been in her house, looking through her personal items, made her home somehow feel less hers. The idea that he might have seen her photo album from her wedding sitting on her coffee table, might have flipped idly through the pages, smiled at the memory of killing her husband, made her fists clench.

  The bomber coming here to find out if they were onto him made sense. But him setting bombs because of her didn’t.

  When Jax stayed silent, his lips twisted and his pupils rolled slightly upward, like he was still working it out in his mind, she prompted, “You need to explain this theory to me.”

  Behind her, the other agents had gone quiet, but stepped closer. They were all listening, too, waiting with enough patience that Keara knew they valued Jax’s psychological insight as much as she did.

  “What if we’ve stumbled on to a serial killer who isn’t interested in a certain victim type or a particular weapon?” Jax asked slowly.

  Keara held in her immediate rebuttal: they’d already decided this wasn’t a serial killer/bomber because there wasn’t a common victimology or MO. “Then what’s his motivation?”

  “He gets off on outwitting police,” Jax said, a mix of surprise and certainty in his voice.

  “Police in general?” Keara pressed. “So not me specifically?” She didn’t like the idea either way, but the thought that a serial killer was somehow focused on her, motivated to kill because of her, was really unsettling.

  “Yes,” Jax said, his hand reaching out like he was going to take hers, then dropping back to his side. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that it was you personally motivating him. I think he’s motivated by whoever is working to solve the crime he committed. It’s like a game to him—can he keep committing crimes without the police finding him?”

  Keara frowned. Behind her, she could hear the agents shifting, like they were impatient and unconvinced, too.

  “Every serial killer wants to outwit police,” Ben spoke up. “I don’t think that’s enough of a motivation alone.”

  “Why not?” Jax countered, crossing his arms over his chest. “You thought a group of criminals were playing games by using the same symbol and laughing at police on a dark web chat room.”

  “Sure,” Anderson said. “But—”

  “Hear me out,” Jax interrupted. “It could explain why there have been so many different locations. Because he’s looking for a new challenge each time, a new police office to test, to see if he can find a worthy opponent.”

  “Or he’s just trying to outrun the investigations by changing jurisdictions,” Ben countered. “A lot of serial killers try that.”

  “Sure,” Jax agreed, not looking deterred. “But you didn’t think it was a serial criminal responsible for everything, because of all the differences. What about the similarities? How likely is it really that we have six different criminals—murderers, an arsonist and a bomber—all using the same symbol and all equally skilled at leaving behind such clean crime scenes? Not to mention, all of them only committing one—or maybe two—crimes before stopping?”

  The agents behind her were silent as Jax stared at them with raised eyebrows. Keara thought about each of the case files she’d read, about the total lack of progress in each of those cases. They’d all eventually gone cold, just like her husband’s murder.

  “Okay,” Ben said, sounding like he was reluctantly getting on board with Jax’s theory. “Then why bombs now after a series of murders and one arson?”

  “Because the weapon isn’t the point,” Jax said, the excitement in his voice growing.

  It set off an excitement in her, too, a hope that they were getting closer to finding the person responsible for all of the crimes. Including Juan’s murder.

  “When serial killers get away with it, they get bolder, right?” Jax asked, his gaze on Ben.

  Keara shifted, so she could see them both.

  On Ben’s face was interest, the thrill of being on a solid lead that she recognized. The excitement was catching. All the other agents were slowly nodding.

  “Usually,” Ben agreed.

  “Sometimes, they go for bigger challenges, too, right?” Jax leaned in and his familiar cinnamon scent wafted toward her. “They’ll try to grab victims who are more high risk for them. They’ll spend more time with the victims, leave the body in a more public place, maybe.”

  “So you think this is just a progression?” Keara asked. “He started with murders, tried an arson—and presumably got more attention with the murders, so returned to them? Then he came here and decided bombs would have a bigger impact, get more of a law-enforcement response?”

  Jax nodded. “Yes. And maybe some of this was also him learning what he liked. Maybe initially he figured he’d get more of a thrill from the killing than he did. When he discovered it was actually watching the law-enforcement response—seeing the police scramble to try and find him—that became more of his focus.”

  It made sense in a weird way. Celia Harris’s murder almost certainly wasn’t the guy’s first kill. It was too perfect, too precise, the victim too high risk, the body dumped in a place too close to public areas. He’d probably started with easier victims, people who were less likely to be missed, dumping the bodies in places he hoped they wouldn’t be found. The symbol could have evolved over time, too.

  “So if this is all a progression, if it’s really about this guy trying to outwit the police, then what about Juan?” Keara asked as fury and grief and determination entwined inside her. “He got too close to the truth, didn’t he? This guy thought he was outwitting police and then Juan showed up at his door and the bomber decided he needed to kill him, didn’t he?”

  Jax nodded slowly, her own pain reflected in his eyes. “That’s my guess. I think you were onto something all along with Rodney—or, more likely, given that the sketch we have doesn’t match Rodney, his roommate. I think Juan was killed because he got too close to the truth.”

  “And the crimes were much bigger than he’d ever realized,” Keara finished.

  * * *

  KEARA’S GAZE WAS troubled as she demanded, “Do you think the bomber came here because he knew I worked here? Because he knows I’m Juan’s widow?”

  The agents behind her all cringed. It was barely perceptible, because they were all trained and practiced at hiding emotion. But no doubt they’d all dealt with loved ones who were afraid of one day getting the dreaded call.

  Jax’s heart gave a pained kick, but he tried to consider all the angles before he answered. This wasn’t his job. This wasn’t his specialty. Yes, he
had a lot of training in psychology, a lot of experience working with the victims this type of criminal left behind. But there were other professionals out there, profilers who focused on the other side of it: knowing the mind of the criminal.

  “I doubt it,” he said finally. “But it can’t hurt to get a profiler’s thoughts on that.” He glanced at Ben, who nodded slowly, but didn’t seem anxious to get a second opinion.

  “If I’m right, then it took him a long time to get to Alaska. If he came here for you, then why stop in so many states along the way? Why take so many years to get here? It seems like it was probably a coincidence.”

  “He was jumping from one jurisdiction to the next,” Anderson said, “changing locations once each case went cold. Unless we just missed some of his crimes, this guy is patient.”

  Ben nodded. “A year is a long time in between crimes for a serial criminal, if that’s really what we’ve got here.”

  “Right,” Anderson said, sounding excited by Jax’s new take on the perpetrator. “But for big investigations like the ones we’re talking about, it seems reasonable that police would be actively investigating for a year. Those investigations would slowly ramp down until they were deemed cold and set on the back burner.”

  “This guy probably wouldn’t know exactly when that happened,” Ben said. “But once he couldn’t see police activity, once the news coverage died down, he moved to a new state, studied a new victim, planned a new crime.” He gave Jax an impressed look. “It makes sense. And it explains a lot of things that just wouldn’t fit together otherwise. I think you’re onto something here, Jax.”

  It would take a methodical, patient killer. But each of the cases Jax had reviewed with Keara suggested that kind of criminal. Someone who had studied how to avoid leaving forensics behind, who had watched his intended victim beforehand to avoid witnesses, who had scoped out the location he planned to leave the body. Someone who followed the police investigation, followed the officers investigating, without being noticed.

  Jax flashed back to the moment he’d been driving to meet Keara and had thought someone was following him. A dark blue truck that had turned another way when Jax started driving erratically. Had it been the bomber, looking for insight on the case? Had he followed Jax in the past, maybe even to Keara’s home? Had that been how he knew where she lived?

  Guilt flooded, along with a rush of relief that Keara was okay. What if the bomber had been waiting in her house instead of just going through her files? What if he’d been standing in the dark with a knife, ready to do to Keara what he’d done to her husband?

  The idea made nausea flood through him and he tried to push it back, tried to keep thinking through his new theory as impartially as he could.

  Keara stared back at him, her eyes narrowing as if she could read his emotions.

  She probably could. She was a trained investigator, after all. Would it scare her off, the intensity of his feelings for her? How had they gotten so strong, so fast?

  “If this guy is following the investigation as closely as you’re suggesting, and it is someone who’s been here less than two years, then he’s been at the scenes,” Keara said with certainty. “He’s been talking to people. That means someone has seen him. We need to keep circulating that sketch. Has it been shown to all of the victims and anyone else who was near the scenes at the time of the bombings?”

  “We’ve shown it to all of the victims who are able to look at it right now,” Anderson said, reminding Jax that there were still two Desparre victims in comas, still three from the Luna bomb who were critical and unresponsive, as well.

  “And? No one recognized him?” Keara pressed.

  “Some of them said the sketch looked kind of familiar,” Ben replied. “But no one could give us a name. Same result as the general canvassing today.”

  “He’s good at blending in,” Jax said. “He’s got a lot of practice fading into the background.”

  “This is a small town,” Keara said, frustration in her voice. “We notice outsiders. Yeah, we let them have their privacy, but unless they’re hiding out on the mountain all day, we see them.” She frowned, a ripple of anger rushing over her features. “Of course, I thought that five years ago, too, and we had a kidnapper living among us. People knew him vaguely, but no one seemed to know who he was.”

  “We’ll find this guy,” Jax said, hoping he sounded confident. But would they? Why was he still here if it was the same person? “He figured out who you were,” Jax breathed, the final pieces that didn’t quite fit falling into place in his mind.

  “He figured out that I was the chief of police or that I was Juan’s widow?” Keara demanded, sounding like she already knew the answer.

  “He was probably planning to move on after the Luna bombing like he had with all the other crimes. But you showed up that night,” Jax realized. “Or maybe he followed me when I came to Desparre to talk to you about the case.” He told Ben about the blue truck and the agent nodded, jotting notes.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Keara.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “We don’t know that was him. And if it was, you shook him. Anyway, if he’s sticking around because he realized who I was, that gives us more of a chance to bring him down.”

  “He’s breaking pattern now,” Ben said, a warning in his voice that Jax felt deeply himself.

  “I know,” Keara said, glancing at the other agent. “My husband almost caught him. Maybe he’s worried I’m just as good.”

  “With a personality type like this, if he’s breaking pattern, he could be fixating on you,” Jax said, the worry he felt coming through in his words.

  Keara nodded, fury in her own voice. “He can fixate all he wants. I’m fixated now, too.”

  “Keara.” He stepped closer, trying to block out everyone else, everything else, as she tipped her head up slightly, meeting his gaze.

  “I think you could be in danger.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The air felt stuffy and uncomfortable inside Jax’s SUV. Or maybe that was just all of Keara’s pent-up anger.

  She took a deep breath. The anger and grief over her husband’s murder had settled over the years, buried deeper where it was less likely to bubble up at any moment and overwhelm her. But right now, knowing the person who had done it was probably here, trying to destroy the new town she’d chosen to call home, had pushed it all to the surface again, as strong as it had ever been.

  It wasn’t fair to take it out on Jax.

  She glanced at him, saw the worry in his tense profile, in the focused gaze that kept jumping between the dark road ahead and his rearview mirror, like he was watching for a tail. It was obvious he felt guilty, thinking he might have led the bomber to her.

  “It’s not your fault,” she told him.

  He glanced at her briefly, pensively, then back out the windshield.

  “For all we know, this guy found out where I lived by talking up the locals.”

  “And no one recognized him?” Jax countered.

  “Judging by that sketch, he’s not exactly a memorable-looking guy.” The couple who’d seen him—assuming the person they’d seen was the bomber—said he was just shy of six feet, with thinning brown hair. He’d been wearing a shapeless coat, maybe to disguise his build, and sunglasses on a not-so-sunny day. When asked if there was anything memorable about him, Imani had just shrugged and called him “average.”

  Keara glanced at Patches in the backseat, sound asleep with her head resting on Keara’s overnight bag. “This really isn’t necessary.” She repeated what she’d said back at her house, when everyone else had either headed home or gone inside to gather evidence. When Jax had insisted she come stay at the hotel where it was safer, she’d rolled her eyes and blurted harshly, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Ever the therapist, he hadn’t taken offense. Probably he’d recognized her misplaced
frustration and fury.

  Even now he just said calmly, “We agreed you’d be safer at the hotel. Plus, Patches will love the company.”

  Woof! she chimed in from the backseat.

  Keara twisted to look at the Labrador retriever and couldn’t stop her smile. The puppy had been wound up an hour ago, jumping over the seat in Jax’s SUV where she’d been shut inside, barking and trying to get someone to let her out. As soon as Keara had given in—and given herself a welcome distraction while federal agents combed through her office, looking for evidence—she’d nudged repeatedly at Keara, like she was mad it had taken so long. Then she’d lain down at Keara’s feet and promptly fallen asleep.

  She’d been asleep for most of the ride from Keara’s house toward the Royal Desparre Hotel, too. But apparently saying Patches’s name woke her instantly.

  “Can’t argue with that, can you?” Jax asked, giving her a tense smile as he pulled into the hotel parking lot.

  As he put the SUV in Park and shifted to face her, focusing those compelling deep brown eyes entirely on her, Keara resisted the urge to fidget. She was a police chief. She didn’t fidget.

  “Jax, look, I don’t mean to be rude, but let’s be honest here. You’re not law enforcement. You can’t protect me.”

  He shrugged, only a brief flicker of offense in his eyes. “Well, then it’s a good thing this hotel is full of FBI agents, isn’t it?”

  “Then what’s the point of me staying with you instead of just getting my own room?”

  Woof! Woof! Woof! Patches seemed to argue from the backseat.

  “If I’m right, then this guy has gotten away with it for at least seven years, Keara,” Jax said, sounding tired as he retread the argument they’d already had at her house.

  It was an argument he’d won, since she was here, with her bag packed with her uniform for tomorrow and her work laptop. She’d left her personal vehicle in front of her house, hoping it would seem occupied if the killer decided to return.