Cassie Miles - Rocky Mountain Mystery

David was beginning to regret his request that Blair get involved in the investigation. She’d been through enough. She didn’t need to be dragged back into this tragedy. “I’m sorry.”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “There’s not much time before I need to call Adam. What do you think I should do?”

“I’m torn,” he said honestly.

“Why?”

“Of course I want your input. You were the medical examiner in charge of the prior murders. You’re smart. You know how to interpret the data. And you know the Fisherman’s modus operandi.”

However, as she’d mentioned before, the prior investigation had become personal. At the time, Blair had been assigned a bodyguard. “Why did the police consider you a target?”

“Godiva chocolate.” She went toward the kitchen. “Come in here with me while I make sandwiches.”

He followed her to the small galley kitchen. Though David knew most of the details on the Fisherman murders, her reference wasn’t familiar. “What about Godiva chocolate?”

“It was a detail that the police kept secret,” she said as she went to the fridge and took out the makings for sandwiches.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked.

She turned and faced him. Her green eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes, shone bright. “Because I did the autopsy on the first victim, the Fisherman serial murders became my case.”

He nodded. Standard procedure for the Coroner’s Office was to maintain consistency on related murders. “Go on.”

“My autopsy results on the contents of the stomach and upper GI showed that every victim, after the first one, had eaten chocolate a few hours before her death.”

“So?”

“Specifically, it was Godiva chocolate.”

David still didn’t get it. “What does this have to do with you?”

She pointed to a gold foil box on the kitchen counter. “I’ve always had a passion for Godiva chocolate. Some of the forensics people even called me Lady Godiva. The police deduced that the Fisherman was feeding his victims my favorite chocolate before he killed them.”

“As a sick threat to you.”

“Very sick,” she said.

David’s jaw tightened. “Call Adam right now. Tell him to forget about the autopsy. I don’t want this psycho coming after you again.”

“Neither do I.” Pensively she frowned. “But it’s not my choice. It’s up to the Fisherman. He makes the decision about who’s next.”

Blair opened the gold box of Godiva and popped a mini-truffle into her mouth. The rich chocolate melted comfortingly on her tongue. Of course she worried about the Fisherman and the scheduled autopsy and an investigation that might turn deadly. She’d be crazy not to be nervous. However, a different concern was uppermost in her mind. David.

As she made sandwiches at the kitchen counter, he stood near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. She could smell him—a clean scent like soap and fresh laundry.

“Blair.” The way he spoke her name sounded like an endearment. “I don’t want you to do anything that might be dangerous.”

Like kissing you? While she’d been changing clothes, the fact that they’d kissed had absorbed into her consciousness. There was an obvious sexual buzz between them, but she didn’t understand why or where it might be going. Was she ready for a real relationship? Would she be satisfied with less?

“Blair, are you—”

“Fine, I’m fine.” She flapped her hand, brushing away his concern. “There’s nothing dangerous about my life, David. The way I figure, my odds of being attacked by a serial killer are about a hundred thousand to one.” Which was roughly equivalent to the odds of a single thirty-four-year-old woman who seldom left her house finding a meaningful relationship with a man. “Wildly unlikely.”

“Wrong,” he said. “The Fisherman isn’t a random killer. His targets are—”

“I know. Women who work in medicine, law enforcement or the media. None of which applies to me. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t work anywhere.” Without turning around to look at him, she groped for the door to the refrigerator. “What do you want to drink?”

“Any kind of soda pop that’s not diet.”

Her teensy kitchen wasn’t big enough for two people, but he continued to hover as if lurking within a three-foot radius would somehow protect her from a psychotic murderer. She grabbed two cans of pop from the fridge and circled to face him. “Excuse me, David. It’s a bit crowded in here.”

“I should hire a bodyguard for you.”

“What?”

He dropped his hands to her shoulders and stared intently at her. “Let me do this. I’ll hire somebody who won’t get in the way. Not a guy. A woman bodyguard. A really big woman who knows martial arts.”

“You want to hire Xena the Warrior Princess to look after me?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said.

This time, when she looked up into his well-meaning eyes, she didn’t have the urge to kiss him. It was the opposite: she wanted to punch that lantern jaw. Who did he think he was? What gave him the right to come in here and disrupt her life?

He said, “You need protection.”

“What I need is space.”

She pressed the icy aluminum cans in her hands against his chest, and he recoiled.

“Damn, Blair. That’s cold.”

“Be glad the pop cans aren’t open. I might have dumped the contents on your pointed head.” She glared. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The Fisherman is in jail.” She nodded toward the other room. “We’re ready to eat. Go sit at the table.”

He left the kitchen but didn’t sit. “I’m not letting go of this, Blair. Yesterday’s victim was involved with the prior investigation. Just like you.”

“Enough.” She slammed the pop cans down on the table. “As of this moment, I’m officially declaring a moratorium on discussion of the Fisherman.”

“You can’t ignore this,” he said.

“Accept my conditions or leave.”

He pulled out a chair and sat.

Silently she counted to five, allowing her emotions to settle. “We’re going to have a nice lunch. Just a couple of old friends, renewing our acquaintance.”

She glanced at her small, round dining table that was old enough to qualify as antique but not polished. She should have covered the scratched-up veneer with a tablecloth or thrown together a centerpiece—something to make their lunch more cosy. But her tablecloths were stuck away in a linen drawer. What could she do to make this lunch more civilized?

“Wine?” she asked.

“No.”

“Music,” she said, turning on the radio, set to the classical station. “Rossini.”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing like a good rotini.”

“That’s a pasta, David.”

“Whatever.”

She opened her vertical blinds. Daylight from the floor-to-ceiling windows splashed into her condo. On the fifth floor, she was just above the leafy green treetops. Her windows faced west, and it would’ve been a spectacular panorama if other high-rise buildings hadn’t been in the way. As it was, she could only see slices of the Rockies.

Busily, she set lunch on the table. Tuna salad sandwiches and blue corn chips. Her fiesta-ware plates looked…festive, but the paper napkins were terminally tacky. At the very least, she ought to have decent glasses for the soda pop. Returning to the kitchen, she climbed onto the counter to reach the top cabinet shelf where she kept her crystal. The goblets were dusty.

“Blair? What are you doing in there?”

“Nothing.” She climbed down and grabbed two plain water glasses that she filled with ice and brought to the table. “Should I light a candle or something?”