Kathleen Creighton - Memory of Murder

The seventh book in the Taken series, 2010

Dear Reader,

All authors know, when it comes to characters and plots, that sometimes there are surprises. A relatively minor character can develop a voice and demand his or her own story. Plot twists we never expected can present themselves and give us those wonderful “lightbulb” moments. Oh, we love those moments.

One such moment occurred to me when I was writing the fourth-and what I had assumed would be the last-book in the series THE TAKEN. As Holt Kincaid was explaining to Billie how his parents had disappeared without a trace when he was only five years old, I knew-I just knew -I could not leave that mystery unsolved.

Thus began a series of “what if” that grew into a whole new love story I think you will find as compelling to read as it was to write. This is really two love stories, one long past, one present, woven together in a tapestry of love and loss, forgiveness and redemption, of families torn apart and then reunited in the midst of tragedy. Most of all, it is a story about second chances.

Enjoy,

Kathleen Creighton

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access, Declassified 2010

I have always known this day would come.

Las Vegas, Nevada

“Iwas five years old. I remember it because I’d just had my birthday party. My parents took me to a park, and there was a pony.” Holt’s smile flickered briefly. “I think that was the first and last time I was ever on a horse. Anyway, a couple of days later, my parents left me with a babysitter and went out to dinner and a movie, and never came back.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, it was a moment before it registered. Brenna did a little double take, then whispered, “What happened? Was it a car crash?”

His hand continued its idle journey up and down her arm. “Their car was found in the movie theater parking lot. My parents never were. They just…disappeared.”

She stared at him, appalled, half disbelieving. “That’s…crazy. People don’t just…disappear.”

“Actually, they do,” Holt Kincaid said. “More often than you’d suppose.”

First let me say, I am not a monster. What I did, I did for reasons I thought were very good ones, at the time.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

San Diego, California

Three years later

Alan Cameron’s day began, as it all too often did, with a body. Three of them, actually. They came that way sometimes, in bunches.

It was now past noon, and one of those cases, that of seventeen-year-old Juan Miguel Alviera-whose badly beaten and bullet-riddled body had been found in an alley between a couple of abandoned cars-had been turned over to the Gang Unit. The other two, Walter and Louise Marchetti-found in their own bed by a concerned neighbor, both victims of single gunshot wounds to the head-had tentatively been ruled a murder-suicide, pending the autopsy results. All that was left of that one was filling out the report, which Alan was going to have to take care of himself, since his partner, Carl Taketa, was currently enjoying the pleasures of Cancún with his new bride, Alicia.

Like most cops, Alan hated paperwork. Making this seem to him like a good time to grab some lunch.

He logged off, indulged in a quick stretch and was reaching for his jacket when he heard a soft throat-clearing followed by a hesitant, “Excuse me-are you Detective Cameron?”

He swiveled in his chair, eyebrows politely raised. “I am.”

The woman was standing a short distance away between two unoccupied cubicles, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else but where she was. Not uncommon, in his experience, for people who came looking to speak to a homicide detective.

“How can I help you?” he asked in the mild but authoritative manner in which cops are expected to address presumably law-abiding members of the public, all the while taking in every detail of the woman’s appearance and demeanor.

Tall, slim and fit but not all that young. Late thirties to early forties, probably, and keeps herself in good shape with regular trips to the gym, or maybe the tennis court. Definitely not physical labor-her manicure’s too perfect, skin too good. Obviously uses sunscreen…

Attractive, definitely. Vivid blue eyes fringed with lashes that were thick enough to be suspect but which he was almost certain were real. Elizabeth Taylor eyes, he thought to himself. Straight, glossy dark brown hair in an up-to-date style and cut that had set her back some serious coin. It was only the woman’s rather angular features that, in his opinion, kept her from being drop-dead gorgeous. And, also in his opinion, made her infinitely more interesting.

Well-dressed, well-kept, competent-looking-not the sort of person he was used to seeing in his job on a regular basis, for sure.

“I’m not sure,” she said, but approached now with steady steps, as if she’d come to a difficult decision. “Are you the person I should speak to about a-I guess you would call it a cold case?”

Alan’s pulse kicked up a notch; there wasn’t a homicide detective alive who didn’t dream of closing a cold case. Hiding his interest behind a polite, “I can help you with that,” he swiveled back to his computer and placed his hand on the mouse. “Which case are we talking about?”

She made a small gesture with her hand, and he glanced at her in time to catch the last of an expression as it flitted across those austere features, too quickly for him to read. “No-no, it’s none of the ones on your Web site. I did check, but…well, for one thing, your list doesn’t go back far enough. This would have been before I was born-in the 60’s, probably.” She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. “No, this is…something else.”

“Uh-huh.” He tilted his chair back and waited. Then straightened up and belatedly added, with a dip of his head toward the chair beside his desk, “Why don’t you have a seat, Ms…”

“Merrill. Lindsey Merrill.” She took the invitation, but perched on the chair rather than sat in it, shifting her shoulder bag into her lap and clutching it as if she were walking alone on a mean street.

And this time, with his gaze focused on her face, he caught the look of…what? Vexation? Embarrassment? Okay, yeah, but with a touch of fear, too. Maybe. There and then, as before, too quickly gone for him to be certain.

“The thing is,” she said on a soft exhalation, “I’m not sure it’s any kind of case, cold or otherwise. I’m not even sure it actually happened.” Her deep blue gaze slid sideways to meet his, reluctantly, it seemed to him. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

“You’re not.” He kept his tone genial, his posture relaxed, hoping to put her at ease, at the same time wondering whether he’d be as patient if she wasn’t an attractive, single-he surmised, from the absence of rings on her left hand-classy-looking woman. “Why don’t you tell me what makes you think it might be a case, then let me decide if my time’s being wasted or not.”

“Trust me,” she said dryly, “I know exactly what you’re going to think. And I will say ‘I told you so.’”