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She gazed at him, taking in his high forehead, deep-set eyes and firm jaw. He had that deceptively lazy look that she thought of as Southern and sultry.
She leaned back against the seat, aware of the bonedeep weariness that came in the aftermath of danger. What she needed right now was to sleep, to curl up in a ball and go completely unconscious. But there was more to do tonight, and she needed to get organized. “If you take a right here and drive for a couple of miles to Lander’s Crossing, then another right, we’ll be headed back toward Aspen.”
“Got it.” He drove for a moment in silence, then he said, “We need to talk about a few things, Brooke.”
She held up her hand, forestalling any more warnings. “Not about your serial killer. I’ve had enough for today.”
“You need to know what to expect. I’m not just whistling Dixie. This killer is real.”
“Then why didn’t the FBI contact me?”
“Good question. And I have a real good explanation,” he drawled. “It all started about a month ago, at the end of October. I got word from Atlanta that Grant Rawlins had been killed. It was an execution-style murder with one bullet through the forehead and another in his heart.”
Grant Rawlins. His name brought back memories of the trial. Locked up in a bland room in the Atlanta courthouse, their deliberations lasted a whole day. She remembered being tired, watching the afternoon sun pouring through the windows and fading to dusk, knowing that they would have to return the next day to finalize their verdict.
At that time, three years ago, her marriage had already sprung a leak. Thomas had been with another woman, but he’d broken off the affair. She’d forgiven him, confident that they could get their marriage back on course. His career was beginning to take off, and she’d been proud to be his wife.
Back then she’d been a solidly married woman who would never dream of being unfaithful. Still, she couldn’t help noticing Grant Rawlins—a dark, handsome man with a subtle charisma. He moved athletically in spite of his prosthetic leg. “We elected Grant to be foreman of the jury.”
“He was a leader,” Michael said proudly. “We served together in the Marines.”
“He told me he lost his leg in the service,” she said.
“And saved my life.” His jaw tensed. “Grant was a true hero. And I want justice for his murder.”
She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to continue the discussion but intrigued by Michael’s story. “Surely there was an investigation.”
“The Atlanta PD did a decent job. They were the ones who made the link to the jury that convicted Robby Lee Warren. When he got killed in prison, there were plenty of people screaming for revenge. Robby Lee’s three brothers. His father. And the thugs he ran with.”
“But nobody was arrested for Grant’s murder?”
“Not enough evidence. Too many alibis.” He took the turn that lead toward Aspen. “The case went cold, but I couldn’t put the murder behind me. I kept seeing Grant, lying in his coffin with his Purple Heart ribbon pinned to his lapel. So I took a six-month leave of absence from my job to focus all my efforts on finding his killer.”
Michael’s loyalty was fierce—she understood his need to solve this crime. “You said there were other deaths.”
“Juror number two died in what looked like a car accident. I tried to make the case that Grant’s murderer had set up the accident, but the two murders were so different that they didn’t fit FBI profiles.”
“And the third juror?”
“Disappeared. The body hasn’t been found.” He gave her a long look. “That’s why I’m here with you. I owe it to Grant to keep you safe.”
Her typical I-can-take-care-of-myself response stuck in her craw. She couldn’t easily dismiss his story, turn her back and walk away. His logic made sense. And his emotional response to his friend’s death rang true.
She believed him.
Accepting Michael’s story affected her in ways that couldn’t be ignored. Ever since she moved to Aspen, she’d been recuperating from her horror-story divorce. The mountains had healed her. She thought she was recovered, but his words awakened her fears. It felt like she’d gone to the doctor with a headache and found out that she had a fatal illness. Michael had pronounced her death sentence.
She had a terrible thought that she didn’t want to put into words. But she had to. “Did he kill my roommate thinking that she was me?”
“I don’t know your roommate, but it sounds like she had other people who might want her dead. And I suppose we should still consider the possibility that she committed suicide.”
“Give me an answer, Michael.”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“I need to know if she died in my place.” How could Brooke ever forgive herself? Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut, fighting the tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me, too.”
MICHAEL HADN’T wanted to make her feel guilty for her roommate’s death. If anyone was to blame, it was him. He’d known about the threat and hadn’t moved quickly enough. That wasn’t a mistake he’d make a second time. “Where were you headed tonight?”
“Glenwood Springs.”
“Why so far away?”
“My budget. Glenwood is less expensive. And I wanted to get away from all this. From Sally’s death.” Her voice began to quaver. “But I can’t get away. Not when I could be responsible for her death. I can’t run fast enough or far enough to hide from the guilt.”
Covering her face with her hands, she leaned forward. Her long hair tumbled around her face. Her shoulders shook convulsively as she wept.
He pulled into a parking lot outside a convenience store on the outskirts of town. Slipping the car into Park, he kept the engine running and the heater cranked on High. Though it wasn’t snowing, these mountains were freezing cold.
Tentatively, he reached toward her. After all these years as a cop, he still didn’t know how to handle a woman who was crying. He liked it better when Brooke was snarling at him, brandishing a butcher knife. At least he knew how to handle that. Her tears made him feel helpless.
When he touched her shoulder, she pulled away—a standard reaction from a woman who had been abused. From Brooke’s records, he knew that she was divorced and had taken out a restraining order against her ex-husband. He suspected there was a lot more to that story.
She turned her tear-stained face toward him. “I’m okay. We can go.”
“If you’d like,” he said, “I could go get you some water. Or coffee.”
“I’m all right.”
She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving smudges of mascara under her bright blue eyes. Her nose was red, and her full lips pinched together to hold back more sobs. Bedraggled and exhausted, she was a mess. His mama would have said that Brooke looked like something the cat dragged in. And yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off this beautiful, vulnerable woman. Her pain and sorrow were raw, honest.
“You’re staying with me tonight,” he said. “In my hotel room. I’ll sleep on the sofa, and you can take the bed.”
“I don’t think so.” She tossed her head, sending ripples through her auburn hair. “I lost control for a moment, but I haven’t lost my mind.”
“This topic isn’t up for discussion. The only way I’ll know you’re safe is if I can keep an eye on you.”
“What about my car?”
“I’ll take care of it. The only thing you need to worry about is getting some sleep.”
As he drove into Aspen, he listened with half an ear while she told him she was capable of taking care of herself and certainly didn’t need him hanging around like some kind of cut-rate bodyguard. She wanted to be alone, needing solitude to regroup.
But finally she admitted her exhaustion. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stay with you for one night. It’s not like this is a date or anything.”
“Far from it.”
The fact that she is a beautiful and desirable woman doesn’t matter a whit. My mission is to keep her alive. No one else would die at the hand of Robby Lee Warren’s avenger. In that way, Michael would honor the vow he’d made to the memory of Grant Rawlins.
At the hotel, he turned his car keys over to the valet while Brooke looked at him with a curious expression.
“Nice hotel,” she said.
“I thought so.”
“At the boutique this afternoon, you didn’t wince when I told you how much those gorgeous leather gloves cost.”
He nodded.
“There aren’t many cops who can afford the prices in Aspen.”
“I suppose Aspen is a bit pricey.” He glanced at the streets of the mountain town, decorated with garlands and sparkling lights. “Reminds me of a Christmas card.”
“Classy but quaint,” she said. “When I lived in Atlanta, I always missed the snow at Christmastime.”
“I could do without the cold.”
At the door to the hotel, a young man in jeans and a ski patrol parka called out, “Brooke! Hey, Brooke!”
She held up a hand to acknowledge the guy, but she clearly didn’t want to talk to him.
He hustled closer—close enough that Michael could smell the beer on his breath when he said, “I heard about what happened to Sally.”
Brooke edged closer to Michael. “There was nothing I could do.”
“It was suicide, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“I never knew anybody who killed themselves. Amazing.” He dragged his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. In spite of the mountain cold, he wasn’t wearing gloves or a hat. “Wait until Tyler hears about this.”
Tyler who? Michael had to wonder. Despite his conviction that Sally had been mistakenly killed by the serial killer, further investigation might be necessary.
In a glance, he analyzed the man who stood before him—a typical tanned ski bum, carefree and full of beer. But he had an edge, an anger in the depths of his brown eyes. Michael held out his hand and introduced himself.
After a muscular handshake, the young man said, “I’m Peter Thorne.”
“And you were friends with Sally,” Michael said.
“Hell, I slept with her.”
Beside him, he heard Brooke inhale a sharp gasp. “That’s enough, Peter.”
“I might have been her first score when she got to Aspen,” he said. “Didn’t take Sally long to move on to bigger fish, though. Guys who were famous and rich, like Tyler Hennessey.”
“Never heard of him,” Michael said.
“Man, you are definitely not from Aspen. Tyler’s a superstar. For sure, he’ll be going to the Olympics in snowboarding.”
Michael barely knew what snowboarding was. “So, Sally dumped you for this superstar?”
He gave a hard laugh. “Dropped me like a landslide.”
Though Michael’s first concern was to get Brooke safely to the room, he wanted to find out more from Peter Thorne. “Breaking up is no fun. That must have ticked you off.”
“I’ll tell you this.” He jabbed a drunken forefinger toward Michael’s chest. “Sally ticked off a lot of people. Am I right, Brooke?”
Silently, she nodded.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Peter, “if this wasn’t a suicide. There are lots of guys who wouldn’t mind seeing Sally Klinger dead.”
“We have to go,” Brooke said. “Good night, Peter.”
Michael watched Peter stagger along the sidewalk. There seemed to be no lack of motive for people who wanted to hurt Brooke’s roommate. Boyfriends. Ex-boyfriends. Her husband.
Even Brooke had admitted that she wanted to get Sally out of her life.
He took another look at the auburn-haired beauty who entered the hotel in front of him. Had her anger toward her roommate turned violent? Was it possible that the woman he’d come to protect from a serial killer was a murderer?
Chapter Four (#ulink_a61b1740-cc4f-5409-8f45-4786805c2d01)
With Brooke asleep in the bedroom in his hotel suite, Michael poured himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon and added ice—a sin to purists, but he liked his liquor cold.
After Grant’s murder, he’d gotten into the habit of having a drink every night before he went to bed in the hope that he wouldn’t lie awake, unable to shut off his mind. The fact that Grant’s killer hadn’t been brought to justice tore him up inside.
For ten years, Michael had been chasing down leads and solving crimes, but his experience as a cop was no help at all when it came to dealing with Grant’s murder. He raised his glass to the memory of his friend. Here’s to a fallen comrade. A good man, a good soldier, a good friend. Semper Fi.
The bourbon rolled across his tongue, leaving a mellow aftertaste. The hotel’s concierge had stocked the kitchenette with the things he’d requested: milk, fruit and bourbon. Two healthy items out of three wasn’t bad.
The hotel was turning out to be more than adequate. The spacious living room with a view of the ski slope had a kitchenette and a small bathroom of its own. In spite of the earthy Southwestern colors, the rustic furniture reminded him of his uncle Elmo’s hunting lodge. Although the hunting lodge had just about as much class as a rusted tin can.
He listened but heard no sound from the bedroom. Within minutes after Brooke said good-night and closed the bedroom door, he heard her running the shower in the bathroom. If his prior experience with victims held true, he figured she’d be scrubbing herself clean, trying to wash away the memory of violence.
But was she a victim? He gave serious consideration to the possibility that Brooke might have killed her roommate. It seemed unlikely that Brooke had the necessary physical strength to haul Sally through the house and fling her over the balcony. Also, when he arrived on the scene, Brooke’s desperation was real—she wanted to help Sally, to save her.
Nope, Brooke wasn’t a killer.
He had the sense that she was stressed to her breaking point, though. It seemed that her life had been a rough ride, and one more bump in the road—finding her roommate dead—could send her over the edge. Sally’s death wasn’t just a bump in the road—it was more like getting mowed down by a trauma the size of a semi-truck.
Crossing the room, he turned on the gas fireplace and sat on the sofa. His laptop rested on the coffee table in front of him. Time to review his research on the lady who had taken over his bedroom. Thirty-two years old. No arrests. No criminal record. She’d been secretary of the Atlanta Junior League. Active in charity events, her picture popped up on the society page. The black-and-white photo showed a slender, unsmiling woman standing beside an athleticlooking guy in a tux. Her husband, Thomas. She’d taken out a restraining order on him and filed two police reports claiming that he’d harassed her. After a prolonged separation and court battle, their divorce was final four months ago. She’d left town almost immediately afterward.
What made this lady tick? She’d readily admitted that she sometimes saw things that weren’t there but wasn’t currently on medications. Very likely she’d been seeing a therapist. It sure would be handy to talk to that counselor, but psychiatrists wouldn’t talk without a warrant—and sometimes not even then.
First thing tomorrow, he’d put in a call to a friend in the Atlanta police department and see if he could unearth any pertinent information on Brooke Johnson.
