Kansas City Christmas

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“We testified at the same trial.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black leather coat. She didn’t need to see the fists he had to make in order to say the dead man’s name. “André Butler’s.”

“Yes, of course, I remember now. Drug trafficker. Gang leader. Fancied himself a mini mobster. That ended in a mistrial. He…Oh.”

The color drained from her cheeks. He could see the apology—then the pity—cross her expression almost as quickly as the recognition appeared. She was checking out the scars along his jaw from the crash. Remembering the headlines. Maybe she’d even attended the funeral. The one that he’d been too busted up to remember much about. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Your family. I worked on all three…” She pressed her lips together, cutting that line of conversation. “Of course, I remember you. You should have introduced yourself sooner, Detective.”

“Let’s just go with Edward or Kincaid for now.” He wasn’t about to explain that one. He drew in a deep breath, determined to start this conversation all over again. If Holden could talk him into doing some legwork on this case, then he’d better do it right. His fists eased their grip inside his pockets. “I apologize for alarming you, but I was told you worked the night shift. I thought I could catch you on the way home.”

“Instead, you scared the life out of me,” she said. He turned to keep her in his line of sight as she moved away from the pillar to the open area in the middle of the garage. He’d give her the space and pray that with those legs she didn’t bolt. In some ways, he was in better shape than he’d been before the accident. But he didn’t think his right knee and ankle had a quick sprint left in them. “If you need to consult on a case, you should make an appointment.”

Turn around. Look me in the eye. Show me you’re not running. “This isn’t exactly an official visit,” he explained.

With that, she stopped. He forced himself to look away from the heart-shaped rounding of her bottom as she squatted down in her jeans. Just being polite, he told himself, pretending a few dormant male hormones hadn’t just stirred to life below his belt buckle. Well, if feeling guilty at perking up over a woman who wasn’t his late wife didn’t put him in a mood, then Holly Masterson’s actions did.

She stood and turned, holding out the cane she’d picked up. Held it out with an apologetic “Sorry” like he was some kind of crippled old man who needed her help.

Edward snatched it from her grasp and plunked the tip down on the concrete, feeling a sudden need to lean on its support.

“What is it, then?” she asked. Despite his surly lack of thanks, she was looking more curious than irritated now. And the fear he’d put in her eyes a few minutes ago was long gone. “Have you discovered a new lead on your father’s murder?”

Right. He was here to work. To ask questions and do things a regular cop couldn’t do. Hormonal reactions and hits to the ego had nothing to do with this. “Detective Grove is running the investigation, but I have a different angle I want to work on the case.”

“And you have clearance to do that on your own father’s murder?”

“I said it was unofficial.”

“I see.” She worked her green-gloved fingers around the strap of her shoulder bag. When the kneading movement stilled, she tipped her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “You do know that the two bullets I recovered from your father’s body in April have since decomposed to the point that they’re useless for any kind of clinical analysis. And that my lab’s original ballistics and trace reports on them were purged from my computer files by a virus?”

His brothers had filled him in on the destruction of evidence that seemed too convenient to be any kind of accident. “Those are just a couple of the problems I have with this case. That’s why I’m taking advantage of my…inactive…status with the department to do a little investigating on my own.”

She clutched the strap tighter and took a step closer. “You think there’s someone on the inside messing with this case?”

“Possibly.” Somebody with connections somewhere had been systematically eliminating witnesses and destroying evidence almost as soon as they were uncovered. Z Group, the covert agency Edward and his brothers believed was behind their father’s murder, had vast resources—enough to pay off or extort cooperation from almost anyone. It was the players who wouldn’t cooperate—like John Kincaid—who’d been silenced. “I don’t want to think it’s a cop, but there are a lot of other people with connections to the department to consider as well—the lab, the press, technical staff, veterans, family.”

She shook her head. “No one from my lab—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just looking for answers.”

Her smooth, unadorned lips curled into a pensive frown. But those hazel eyes indicated she’d been thinking something through from the moment he’d released her. It almost startled him when her face relaxed into a smile. “I’ve never liked an unfinished puzzle. As long as it’s not illegal, how can I help?”

The steel door leading from the garage into the building opened behind her and a young man with spiky brown hair walked out. Edward lowered his voice. “I’d rather not discuss it here. Are you free right now? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

It was half past midnight on a Wednesday morning. But he was hoping her work schedule meant she was a fellow night owl. “Well, I was planning to go home and get five hours of sleep before I have to turn around and come back to work in the morning. We’re all covering extra shifts during the holidays so folks can go on vacation and be with their families.”

Holidays. Holly. Oh, joy. The blinking reindeer nose on her coat had been far easier to ignore than the unique color of her eyes. But now Rudolph seemed to be flashing in his retinas like some kind of danger warning. Suddenly, what had just been another winter night was now one of the final shopping days left before Christmas. Suddenly, he was bleeding out in the snow and saying Merry Christmas to his daughter for the very last time.

“Hey.”

Something soft and warm brushed across the back of his knuckles and Edward’s eyes popped open. Oh God. Where had he gone? What had he said? Was he scowling as hard as the cramp in his jaw indicated? He needed to get out of here and get a beer.

No, Daddy. You promised.

“Fine. No beer.”

“Excuse me?” The blurring of past and present cleared and he saw the green glove resting atop his hand where it fisted around his cane. He heard the articulate voice. Focused in on the confused concern shining in those clear green-gold eyes. “Are you okay?”

Every impulse in his body screamed to turn his hand and hold tight to Holly Masterson’s gentle touch, as though it was a lifeline to sanity and redemption. But that was crazy. He was crazy. The good doctor was just being kind.

Edward wisely pulled away before she called the loony wagon on him. “Yeah. Um, sorry about that. I was asking—”

“Holly?” The young man who’d entered the garage a moment ago called to her from a pickup truck a couple of vehicles away. “Is everything okay? I thought you’d already gone.”

Edward couldn’t help but notice the flinch in her shoulders as the young man approached. He’d been looming over her like some kind of beast from a fairy tale, but this clean-cut college boy startled her?

“Sure, Rick. Everything’s fine.”

Rick’s gaze darted from his coworker up to Edward and quickly back to Holly again. “Do you want me to wait for you to get into your car?”

“I said I was fine. Thanks for asking, though. I’ll see you tomorrow.” When she shifted her full attention back to his own beastly countenance, her voice was clear and certain. “Shall we go solve that puzzle? Edward?”

The man named Rick climbed into his truck and started the engine, but Edward was painfully aware that he didn’t back out and drive away. He nodded to Holly, not sure if he was feeling ashamed or angered at the other man’s assumption that, just by his fearsome appearance and proximity, he meant her harm. And why was it even more unsettling that her initial fear of him had abated to the point that it sounded as though she was defending him?

“Name the place,” Edward answered, worried about just what kind of emotional roller coaster ride he’d signed up for when he’d agreed to help Holden find their father’s killer. “I’ll follow you.”

He had a feeling the man named Rick would be following him.

THE MOONLIGHT CAFE AND COFFEE BAR on the Plaza stayed open until two in the morning between Thanksgiving and New Year’s to make the most of the influx of tourists and locals who came to see the million-plus holiday lights decorating nearly every rooftop line of the historic upscale shopping and entertainment district. Whether they’d come to have a drink, see a movie or soak up the pervasive holiday atmosphere, the sidewalks and streets were crowded. People from all over the city, and visitors staying in the nearby hotels, were walking about, looking in dressed-up storefront windows and enjoying the festive glow that was both literal and metaphoric this time of year.

The steady fall of light snow that added an extra few inches of white to the hilly streets didn’t deter any of the couples sharing horse-drawn carriage rides. The dropping temperatures that nearly froze Brush Creek and the scenic walkway on either side of it didn’t keep groups of young-somethings from taking souvenir pictures and hopping from one establishment to the next. If anything, the wintry weather seemed to intensify the laughter and “Look there!’s” and romantic appreciation for the district’s Mediterranean architecture, statues and fountains, even if the water in the fountains had been turned off until spring.

Edward Kincaid, however, looked miserable.

Watching him across the polished black tabletop, Holly cradled a cup of almond green tea in her hands, warming her fingers and letting the aromatic steam waft through her nose and keep her senses energized. Edward had removed his leather coat to reveal that it wasn’t shoulder pads that made him appear so broad and intimidating. His size and height were the real deal. The color of the heavy knit charcoal sweater he wore reflected in his gray eyes and made them equally dark.

He didn’t smile, didn’t say much beyond the business at hand, yet his eyes never seemed to be still. Though he continued to face Holly over his mug of black coffee, his gaze darted around, seeming to take in any nearby movement—the waitress carrying a tray, patrons settling in at the bar area, a couple packing up and leaving the booth behind Holly. He studied Holly herself, whenever she raised her cup to take a sip, or when she spoke.

There was something slightly unnerving about the intensity of his steel gaze, an alert watchfulness that made him seem inordinately aware of his surroundings. The man just couldn’t seem to relax. Maybe it was a by-product of his time spent working as an undercover detective for KCPD’s drug enforcement team. Or maybe he just didn’t like the close confines of a crowd.

But to his credit, even when they had to wait ten minutes to get a table instead of sitting at the bar, he didn’t complain. And though he hadn’t zoned out on her again as though he was being buffeted by waves of pain, the way he had at the lab’s parking garage, he didn’t seem to say much more than he had to.

The brooding intensity and lengthy silences made Holly wonder just what was going on behind those alert, soulful eyes. Maybe because of the air of complexity that shrouded him, this secretive, solitary man definitely intrigued her.

“My apartment’s not too far from here,” she commented when she realized she was doing more studying than talking herself.

“One of the brownstones?”

Holly nodded. That’s why she’d picked this particular place to share a conversation. While she knew who the detective sitting across from her was, she didn’t really know him personally. And though she found Edward Kincaid the most interesting mystery to solve of the day, the practical experience of watching her younger sister allow one wrong man after another into her life—just to ensure her next fix—had taught Holly that acting impulsively on this strange attraction to the taciturn detective might not be the wisest move she could make. If things got too weird, she could quickly duck out and get home to the safety and serenity of her own place. “I live on one of the hills south of Brush Creek Boulevard, so I’ve got a great view of all the Christmas lights.”

He didn’t respond to that. After savoring a long drink from his mug, he shifted the conversation back to his reason for asking to meet her in the first place. “When you performed your autopsy on my father, was there any indication that he’d been wearing a ring?”

So much for getting acquainted. She’d already guessed that his raspy, low-pitched voice was a permanent thing—due to injury or surgery of some kind, not a temporary cold. And closer observation had shown her that his chocolate brown beard wasn’t unkempt, after all. Instead, the scraggly effect was actually a normal midnight shadow coming in around a splash of scars that dotted his jawline and right cheek.

On the outside, she was learning about—and unexpectedly liking—Edward Kincaid. But no way was he going to let her see the man behind the eyes.

She reminded herself that this wasn’t a date. He wanted to pick her brain about autopsies and corrupted lab reports.

“Let’s see.” Holly sipped her tea and sorted through the information inside her head. The kind of details he wanted had been deleted from her file by the virus, but she retained a mental image of every victim she’d ever worked on in her head and her heart. In her memory, she gently traveled over John Kincaid’s bruised and broken body, stretched out beneath the bright lights of her lab. “He had a wedding ring on his left hand.”

Edward sipped his coffee and nodded. “Mom insisted he be buried with it. Could there have been a second ring?”

Her eyes closed and she drifted back in time to her lab. She tried to picture each hand in her mind. No indentations at the base of any finger, indicating the habitual wearing of any other jewelry. But a remembered notation popped into her head and she opened her eyes. “Wait.” She set her cup in its saucer and leaned forward, gesturing across the back of her neck. “There was a long, thin abrasion at his nape. I thought it might be related to the beating he took. He’d been tied up so…”

A muscle ticked along his jaw as Edward pressed his lips into a thin grim line.

Holly instinctively reached across the table, cursing her own careless words. “I am so sorry.” Just as quickly, she curled her fingers into her palm and drew them back. He was here for information, not sympathy. “It’s a professional thing,” she explained. “I have to stay clinical when I make these kinds of reports—so emotional reactions don’t clog my perception of things—but I know it’s personal for you. You don’t want to hear—”

“I want to hear anything that can help.” His words indicated that he’d learned to detach his emotions from his job as well. “Tell me about the mark on his neck.”

For a moment, Holly was struck by the sheer strength of will it took to go through everything Edward Kincaid had suffered and still be able to get up in the morning, much less carry on a conversation or run an investigation into something so personal, so violent. Maybe she’d just gotten her first glimpse inside the man.

And maybe she’d better shut off her speculation and any resulting compassion or admiration. He clearly didn’t want to deal with his emotions. Holly took another sip of the tea that had grown tasteless on her tongue and continued. “I wish I could review my notes to be sure, but if I remember correctly, the mark was made postmortem. Something like that could be caused by tearing a necklace off someone’s neck. Could your father have been wearing the ring on a chain?”

“It’s possible. If the ring was something he’d had for a while, then it might not fit his fingers anymore. I never knew him to wear one. But then…” he leaned back against the black vinyl seat, “I dropped out of his life for a while.” After losing his wife and daughter to a vengeful André Butler, that was probably an understatement. “I didn’t even know he was looking into Z Group on his own time, so, why would I know about changes in the style of jewelry he wore?”

“Z Group? Your brother Atticus mentioned that when I was working a Jane Doe murder investigation with him. He thought she was connected to your father’s murder—that they both had worked for the same security organization at one time. They were both killed with two shots—head and heart. Both with the same unique type of bullet.”

Edward nodded. “Disintegrators. I’d love to get my hands on one—see if I can find anything that matches it on the underground market.”

“I have a few samples in my lab. But the breakdown rate is extreme once they enter the body and react with our biological chemicals.” It amazed as much as sickened her to think that someone had created something that could be deadly one moment, then decompose beyond recognition the next. “You’re welcome to come by and look at one, though I don’t know how much good it would do you. I guess that’s the point of making them in the first place—so someone can commit a crime and not leave a trail that can be traced.”

“I intend to follow that trail all the way to the source.” Edward’s gaze zoomed in on hers. “I need you to understand something, Doctor.”

Holly nearly had to hold her breath to keep from looking away from the piercing sensation of those eyes. “Okay?”

“If I have to break the law to do this, I am going to find out who killed my father.”

There was no question that he meant every dramatic word. “You’d give up your badge?”

He braced his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers together at his scarred-up chin and leaned forward, eating up the space in the booth. “I don’t know how much my badge is worth anymore since it got my wife and daughter killed. But I know what justice is worth.” A chill of destiny—or maybe doom—washed over her, raising a sea of goose bumps across her skin. “If you don’t want to help me, I understand. I don’t want to jeopardize anyone’s career but my own—not my brothers’, not yours.” Holly couldn’t help it, she crossed her arms in front of her and tried to hug some warmth into her body. “But I owe this to my dad. I intend to do whatever it takes to put an end to Z Group and to prove who killed him.”

It still stuck in Holly’s craw that someone—most likely from Z Group—had hacked into her computer files and deleted key elements of reports relating to the murders of John Kincaid and others. She was always thorough, always precise. But now there were gaping holes in her work. Court orders, exhumation of bodies and second autopsies would allow her to replace most of that missing information—if the bodies hadn’t degraded and embalming hadn’t altered lingering evidence. But unless there was a new lead on a case, KCPD and the D.A.’s office hadn’t been inclined to budget the expense or put the victims’ families through any more pain or false hopes. She’d love the chance to make things right, to stamp a Closed on every corrupted investigation file. Reclaiming the accuracy of her work was a gut-deep need that could put professional and personal frustrations and insecurities to rest.

But to skip protocols or break the law to find her own satisfaction or personal vindication?

“Are you asking me to do something illegal for you?”

His steely eyes didn’t blink. “I’m asking you to turn the other way if I