Kathleen Creighton - Danger Signals

Wade didn't know how he'd be able to live with himself if he let the sonofabitch get away.

On the other hand, there'd been some progress in the case. The DNA evidence still hadn't come back, which didn't matter much since they didn't yet have a suspect's DNA to compare it to. The canvass of traffic citations was being cross-referenced with juvenile, military and medical records and so far had come up with seven possible suspects. Four of those, known sex offenders, had been brought in for questioning and tentatively ruled out. Three hadn't been located-yet.

Absent some sort of break in the case, the task force was reduced to going back over ground already covered, talking to friends, family, neighbors and coworkers of the victims, sifting through files, culling through databases of similar cases in other cities. There was progress, but it was too slow and too little to suit Wade.

To keep himself from going nuts, he spent some after-hours time-well, okay, some on-the-clock time, as well- looking into the background of one Cory Pearson, journalist.

One thing he had to say. He was who he said he was. There was no dearth of information on him available on the Internet. Wade had been too young at the time to have paid much attention to what was happening on the far side of the world, but it seemed the guy had been a well-known war correspondent in his day-had even been captured and taken prisoner during the Second Gulf War. While a captive in Iraq, he'd met an airman named Tristan Bauer, who had been shot down during the First Gulf War, and at the time had been missing and presumed dead for eight years. They'd both been rescued together-there'd been a big to-do over that, all sorts of medals and honors and receptions at the White House-and in the process, Cory Pearson had met the airman's daughter, Samantha. They hadn't gotten together until years later, though, after the two of them wound up in the same Philippine jungle. Evidently, Pearson had written a book about some of his adventures. That, and a whole bunch of articles for every major news outlet from Time magazine to CNN.

Wade was about ready to conclude Tierney must have been mistaken about the source of the emotions she'd picked up that day in the Portland Rose Gardens. He'd probably have chalked the whole thing up to coincidence, except for one thing. With all that information, gazillions of words written by and about the man, there wasn't a thing, not word one about him between his birth-his birth certificate listed his mother as Susan Louise Pearson and his father as Christopher George Pearson and his birthplace as Indianapolis-and when he'd become a journalist. Okay, college. But before that-nada. Which could mean nothing. But could mean something. Sealed juvenile records, maybe? Which he'd need a warrant to access, and he had no cause whatsoever to justify a warrant.

Maybe someday he'd find a way to dig into it a little deeper, but for now…he supposed he could always ask Tierney to try again to pick up something. If he could keep his prurient imagination under control. Which he was having a lot of trouble doing lately.

No, unless another victim turned up, calling Tierney Doyle was simply too damn dangerous.

He thought about her. though. Thought about her a lot.

She popped into his head at odd times and in peculiar ways. Driving home from work, seeing a little girl with red-gold curls skipping across the street hanging on to her mother's hand, it occurred to him Tierney would have looked like that when she was little, and if she had a daughter…

Catching a glimpse of a rose, or the scent of one-and roses were everywhere in Portland, in May-always brought her vividly to mind, looking the way she did that day in the gardens, with her shoulders bare and the wind playing with her hair and skirt, and her shoes dangling by their straps from one finger.

He couldn't bite into a hamburger without seeing the blissful smile on her lips as she'd crunched on that veggie sandwich of hers…and remembering the way watching her eat had made hungry juices gather at the back of his throat.

He couldn't look at Officer Williams's crime scene photos without his chest contracting at the vivid recall of Tierney's face when she'd looked at the body, her eyes gone stark with grief and self-blame. And that would lead inevitably to the memory-not so much mental as sensory-of the way she'd felt up against him with his arms wrapped around her and his lips pressed against her hair. The sweet, clean smell of her hair, reminiscent of country roads and moist green gardens in the midst of the ugliness of that day.

Then, of course, there were all the usual ways a beautiful woman occupies a man's mind. Sitting at his desk, looking at the phone and thinking how much he wanted to pick it up and call her. Walking up the stairs to his apartment in the evening, his imagination seeing her nice round bottom swaying back and forth as she mounted the stairs to her place just ahead of him. Waking up in the morning in a sweaty tangle of sheets with the imagined image of her naked body entwined with his fading rapidly from his consciousness, and having to dive into a cold shower to clear his mind so he could get on with his day.

Between Tierney Doyle, Cory Pearson and a stalled murder investigation, Wade wasn't getting a whole lot of sleep. He figured if something didn't break somewhere soon, he might be tempted to do something drastic. Get drunk, or look up an old girlfriend, maybe. Except both of those options had about as much appeal as, say, sharing a lumpy sofa with Bruno the basset hound.

The break finally came on Friday night, though not quite the way he'd expected.

It had been a frustrating week, and as the members of the TK Task Force packed it in. one by one they stopped by Wade's desk to ask if he was planning on joining them for beer and pool at Friendly's, the department's watering hole a couple of blocks up the street. Last to go was Ed Francks, and Wade told him what he'd told the others: he might be along later. He wanted to check something out first.

"Come on. man, give your brain a rest," Ed said as he twirled his jacket off the back of his chair and onto his broad shoulders. "We all need it. This case has us chasin' our tails. Even Superman needs a little R and R now and then, and you ain't no superman."

'This isn't the case." Wade frowned at the screen as he brought up the Google search he'd saved. "Some personal stuff."

He and Francks had been friends for a long time, and partners before that, but the big man wasn't the type to presume. He stood for a moment looking down at Wade, then said quietly. "Anything I can do?"

Wade threw him half a smile and said, "Nah-no biggie. You go on. I might stop by later. Save me a cold one."

"I might, and then again…" Francks grinned, pointed a finger at him to say goodbye, and went off.

As the quiet of the off-hours squad room settled around him. Wade hitched his chair closer to the computer and began a search through his old cases, looking for somebody who might be looking for him.

The next time he looked at his watch it was after ten. His head was swimming and he had a cramp between his shoulder blades, and he didn't have any more of an idea who was stalking him-assuming it wasn't Cory Pearson-than when he'd started.

He powered down his computer screen, shoved his chair back and indulged in a good stretch and head scratch. Then he got up. put on his jacket, fished his car keys out of his pocket and turned on his cell phone, tucked his weapon in its holster and headed for the parking garage.

He wasn't sure why, but his nerves were on edge. Maybe looking at all those old cases, thinking about the crimes and the perps he'd helped put away. Thinking even more about the few he hadn't been able to catch, or who had managed to slip through the system's fingers. Grim thoughts, some of them, and plenty of reasons why somebody might feel gleeful about tracking him down. But then again, why would they have to? He was still right here in Portland. Oregon, where the crimes had gone down and the perps were put away. Didn't make sense.