Jenna Ryan - Cold Case Cowboy

Feeling suddenly reckless, Sasha leaned closer to him on the leather seat. “It’s a deal. And afterward, you can tell me why a gorgeous cop like you chose to devote himself to solving cold cases.” Giving in to desire, she brushed her lips temptingly over his. “You can also tell me what kind of a snowball’s chance in hell you think you have of talking me into leaving Painter’s Bluff.”

“S’CUSE ME, ma’am.”

A man bumped Sasha’s elbow as he passed her in the second floor corridor. She recognized the stained cowboy hat and charcoal-gray parka, but beyond that didn’t take much notice of him.

She couldn’t believe it was only ten o’clock. So much had happened since she’d arrived in town, it felt like 3:00 a.m.

Nick Law, a cop who specialized in cold cases, believed that a serial killer was going to target her as his next victim. Hows and whys aside, the fact remained that someone had killed a woman last night. A woman with features similar to her own. A woman, like her, of Swedish descent. He’d left her naked in the snow, inside a snow angel. He’d strangled her. Had he also raped her? Nick hadn’t mentioned that, and Sasha hadn’t asked. She really didn’t want to picture it.

So far, the local newspaper was reporting a death with no reference to a serial killer. There’d been no snow globe left at the scene, or if there had been someone had removed it.

Why?

Nick hadn’t been able to answer that question. The sheriff hadn’t showed, and Dana had gone home after his wife paged him. He’d murmured something about in-laws wanting him to put his computer skills back to work and join them in Silicon Valley.

Alone with Nick after that, Sasha had kissed him.

Why had she done that? She wasn’t Barbara—please, God, not even close. And while Sasha did flirt with men sometimes, she seldom went so far as to touch them. She’d meant to tease Nick, she knew that. What she hadn’t intended to do was enjoy herself.

Nick had given her very little by way of a reaction. Whether he’d liked the kiss or not, she couldn’t tell, though he had stared at her for some time afterward.

A reluctant smile quirked Sasha’s lips. Perversity, it seemed, ran rampant in her family.

She heard footsteps to her left, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Evening, Mr. Rush.” April, the redhead from the front desk, flashed a high-voltage smile at the man in the stained hat as he stood outside room 23. “Truck still not fixed?”

The man fumbled with his key. “Maybe tomorrow.” He jammed it hard into the lock, glanced in Sasha’s direction and nodded. “’Night, ladies.”

April patted her heart. Her voice dropped as she approached. “He’s so Gary Cooper.”

Sasha had to force her own key into the very old lock. “All I saw was a hat, facial stubble and a sheepskin collar.”

April paused for a chat. “This is his third night here. Not on purpose, mind you. His truck crapped out on him two miles south of town. How are you for towels?”

“I’m good. Listen, if Max Macallum’s looking for me, tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow, okay?”

“Got it.” When the door to room 23 gave a faint creak, April hitched up her breasts and offered a sugary, “Sleep well, Mr. Rush.” To Sasha, she whispered, “Think I’ll rent High Noon tonight.”

“Right now I couldn’t stay awake through the opening credits.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Once, when I was five.”

April gestured at Sasha’s hair. “You should watch it again. You’re totally Kellyesque.”

“Sorry?”

“Rent the movie. Gary Cooper, Grace Kelly. You’ll get it. You’re beautiful in a Princess of Monaco way. Not the type we usually see here in Painter’s Bluff.”

“I heard Skye Painter was a bombshell in her time.”

“So they say. At this point, she’s more of a character.” April patted Sasha’s arm. “You look done in, hon. Get some shut-eye. Tomorrow should be a decent day, although forecasters are talking blizzard by nightfall. Sleep well.”

“I’ll do my best.”

As she started across the threshold, Sasha thought she heard a sound like a raspy breath. When the door to room 23 clicked shut, the sound stopped.

“Weird,” she murmured. And made a point of bolting her own door behind her.

HE LOCKED himself in, hid away. No prying eyes could find him here. Trembling all over, he pressed his forehead against the door.

He couldn’t deny it anymore. The monster that had lived inside him for so many years was back. It had grown into a vicious, spiky-tailed demon. Sometimes it vanished like smoke. Other times it snarled and scratched and whipped its tail around until he had to let it out.

It crawled to the surface, so close he could feel its heart beating against his ribs, feel its hot, greedy breath on his skin. He pictured her face, heard her voice. Tossing his head back, he breathed out the hatred through his nostrils.

He’d killed her many times already, but somehow she always came back. He needed to kill her again, do it properly this time. Then, finally, his pain might end.

He visualized the beautiful blonde, imagined her preparing to climb into her soft hotel bed. Removing her clothing, piece by piece. Removing her false halo and wings, perhaps for the last time.

He raised his forehead from the door. And heard the monster chuckle.

Chapter Three

“So what’s the story, Nick? Gotta be something more than pictures of cold female bodies bouncing around in that head of yours. You gonna share, or just sit there staring at a corpse all night?”

Sheriff Will Pyle was growing impatient. Nick saw it on his face, heard it in his voice. Pyle got annoyed when people died in his town. So far in his four-year term of office, only twelve had. Two of them had been heli-ski accidents, eight had gone from old age or disease, one man had committed suicide. Kristiana Felgard was a blot on Pyle’s record and he didn’t like it, not one bit.

Surprisingly, though, he didn’t seem to resent Nick’s being there, or the fact that Dana had placed the call to Denver without consulting him.

Pyle was a big-boned, beefy man of sixty-two. He’d been a state cop in Illinois for over thirty years before coming to Painter’s Bluff in search of a quiet life. Until last night, he’d had it. Though he and Nick had crossed paths on several occasions during Pyle’s term, this was the first time in an official capacity.

Straddling an outdated swivel chair, Nick rearranged the photos on the sheriff’s desk. “You took a lot of shots, Will.”

The sheriff removed his gun and holster. “Old habits, Nicky. We cover our butts. Got a mix of digital, Polaroid and good old Kodak film. Even took videos under floodlights. We did our best to preserve the site, but January being what it is and us not really equipped for such an undertaking, there’s not a whole lot left up there.” He stretched his back, raising his arms overhead. “You want coffee?”

“Black, two sugars.”

“Two?” Pyle snorted. “You lose your toughness in the city?”

“I used to take four.”

“Sissified city cop.” Pyle hunted through a cupboard for the sugar. “Can you even ride a horse?”

“Bareback through the snow to school, just like my daddy and his daddy before him.”

Another snort, this time of laughter. But Pyle sobered as he poured the coffee. “What do you make of this unholy mess?”

Nick picked up a graphic shot. “Nothing good so far. I see blood on the snow here. Besides the strangulation bruising on the victim’s neck and the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, she was unmarked.”

“Noticed that.”

Nick counted the spots of blood. There were four in the snow and another on a jutting rock near the victim’s left shoulder. “Talk to me about the blood.”