Leslie Parrish - Fade To Black

What did surprise him was the way her movements emphasized the slenderness of her hands. She was so utterly strong and capable, but had beautiful, feminine hands with long, graceful fingers, as delicate and fragile as her neck and throat. He imagined she’d be as good at playing a piano as he suspected she was at firing a weapon.

He shook his head, tugging his thoughts away from where they’d quickly gone-to what else she might be really good at doing with her hands-because they were crazy. Insane. He was noticing way too much about the woman, from her hair to her hands, her voice, her slim-but-curvy body. Not to mention that quick brain and intuition.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

Her brow shot up. “What?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head, cursing himself for opening his trap. “It’s just… you seem to be really good at what you do. I’m surprised you stay here.” What could this tiny town have to offer someone so bright, strong, and attractive?

“I like it here,” she said, maybe insisting a little too hard. “It’s my home.”

“Sorry.”

“As for what I do,” she added, “it’s family tradition. My father and my late grandfather held the job. It’s expected that a Rhodes will be sheriff of Hope Valley.” Her attention shifted to her mug, as if there were more to it, though she didn’t elaborate.

He suddenly thought of her brother. Her angry, scarred brother, who hadn’t followed family tradition. But he didn’t bring that up. She’d wanted to pretend they hadn’t overheard the ugly fight back at the station, and he wouldn’t call her on it.

“Family expectations, yeah, I hear ya.”

“Yours?” she asked.

“My dad’s a steelworker; Mom’s a hairdresser. From the time I was old enough to understand the spoken word, I knew they’d never forgive me if I didn’t go to college and make something of myself.”

She smiled, at least a little, that pretty smile that hadn’t gotten much use since he’d arrived in town, as if she were grateful for the detour out of their dark conversation about the case. “They must be proud.”

“I guess. Yours, too. Is your father aware of…?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. But I might talk to him about it. He took care of this town for two decades. He might be able to help.” She didn’t say, You have a problem with that? The message came through in her cool, defensive tone.

“Smart,” he replied, knowing he didn’t have to warn her to be cautious. She was too good to be anything else. “Let me know if he has any thoughts.”

A quick flash of appreciation appeared in her eyes, and she visibly relaxed again. “I won’t give him the graphic details. I don’t think my father or grandfather ever envisioned the job including something like this case,” she murmured, her eyes gazing past him, looking at something in the distance. Perhaps the ghost of Lisa Zimmerman, which he suspected would live in her mind for a long time.

“Nobody envisions something like this coming into their life.”

“What about you? I guess you see this kind of thing pretty often.”

“Not this kind of thing. I was working Violent Criminal Apprehension until a month ago.” He watched the waitress return with his tea, waited until she’d left, then added, “I thought I’d try cyber crimes to get away from some of the darkness.”

Another of her small, rueful smiles appeared. “How’s that working out so far?”

“Not exactly like I’d planned. I think I slept better tracking down average, everyday thugs.” Unable to contain the sudden flare of anger that made his voice shake, he admitted, “But I won’t rest until we’ve stopped this guy.”

Her green eyes held understanding. Of course they did; she wanted him stopped, too, even having known about the case for only a few hours. Anyone who witnessed what the monster was capable of would be chilled at the realization that he was still out there walking among them. She just hadn’t figured out-not yet, anyway-that he might be walking a whole lot closer than she thought.

“I don’t get the Cyber Division angle,” she said. “This perp’s not an embezzler or Internet fraud slimebag. I thought the… what’s it called, National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime? I thought they handled this type of thing.”

“NCAVC normally does. But we’re a new type of Cyber Action Team. Every other one in the U.S. is on standby to respond to traditional cyber threats all over the world. Us? We respond only to Internet-related murder.”

“Makes sense, I guess, in this day and age. With your background in ViCAP, a couple of IT specialists, you bring in a range of experience.”

“Yeah, we’re a mixed bag of specialties. Stokes, who you will meet tomorrow, is a forensics genius. And Wyatt’s been trying to get a behavioral analyst to come over to join us, so far without much luck.” Dean didn’t always understand all that psychoanalytical mumbo jumbo those BAU guys spouted, but they usually got enough things right to make it worth including them in ongoing investigations. Especially investigations into serial murder. “In the meantime, he’s found one who agreed to look at this case and come up with some kind of profile. But I don’t know if they’ll ever actually give us one full-time. That’d be making things too easy on us.”

She appeared confused. Anybody who wasn’t on the inside of the bureau probably would be. Because the machinations and competitiveness-and even spite-when it came to Wyatt didn’t make a bit of sense.

Before he could even begin to explain, however, they were interrupted. “Hey, there, Stacey! How’s my best girl? You been missin’ me?”

Dean jerked back, shocked that he’d been so focused on his conversation with the woman sitting across from him that he hadn’t even realized someone had stopped beside their booth. Glancing up, he noted a beefy, thick-chested guy, probably in his late thirties. He wore dusty jeans and a lightweight flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off to reveal strong arms, the right one paler than the left. His round face, made rounder by a receding hairline of puffy curls, was soft and jolly-looking.

But a longer glance revealed the stranger’s deeply lined brow. And though he smiled down at Stacey, his eyes darted quickly about, nervous as an addict making a buy.

Or maybe Dean was imagining it. Because he didn’t like anyone-least of all a guy who looked like the Web ster’s definition of a blowhard-talking to the capable, smart woman across from him as if she were a cute waitress without a brain in her head.

“Hey, Randy,” Stacey said, obviously forcing a smile to her mouth. Dean had known her less than a day, but he recognized the effort she was making to appear normal. He saw it in her clasped fingers on the table, in the stiffness of her shoulders and the tiniest tremble of her jaw as the muscles in her cheeks tried to keep her lips curved up.

Strong fingers. Capable shoulders. Well-defined jaw. Nicely shaped lips.

He shifted in his seat.

“Been wondering how you’re doing. Meaning to stop by and say hello to your dad, too. Just doing a lot of long-distance interstate runs this summer, delivering electronics to the big box stores. Heaven forbid folks don’t have their new wide-screens and Blu-rays in time to catch the new fall shows next month.”

“I’m sure Dad would love to see you,” Stacey replied. She gestured toward Dean. “This is Dean Taggert. Dean, meet Randy Covey. My brother’s partner in crime.”

The stranger chuckled, obviously not hearing the steel in her voice.

Noting that she did not introduce him by title, Dean again appreciated the woman’s common sense-a rarity among some of the local cops he’d worked with, or so it often seemed. But there had been no need to ask Stacey to keep his identity, and the reason for his presence in Hope Valley, a secret.