Cynthia Cooke - Shiver

“Why?”

The captain glanced at Devra, took the detective by the arm and led him a few feet away. “The computer matched forensics with three other murders—one each in Portland, San Francisco and Miami. What we have is a killer who goes after blondes—blondes that look a lot like Michelle.”

Even though his tone was muted, Devra couldn’t help but hear him. Her eyes widened as he listed the cities. Cities she’d lived in. They’ve found out about the others. It would only be a matter of time before they discovered her connection with those cases, too. But what had he said about forensics?

“Are you saying they were all murdered by the same man?” The detective’s voice rose in pitch.

His words didn’t make sense. The same man? There was only one killer? The thought and its implications came crashing down around her. Only one? All this time? But she’d thought… It hadn’t been the victims she’d been connected to, it’d been him—a killer who murdered women who looked like her.

The room spun. Her stomach heaved. He’d known about her all along. He’d been following her. Terror seized control of her senses. She stood. She had to leave. Now.

Riley watched his suspect swing her purse over her shoulder and get ready to bolt. She’d heard something. Before she’d gone two steps, he gripped her arm and pulled her back. “What do you know about this case?” he demanded, his barely controlled fury rasping his voice.

“Nothing,” she whispered, her eyes widening with the fear of a trapped animal.

“You do!” he insisted. “Tell the truth.”

She cringed beneath his fury and fell back into the chair, clutching her purse against her stomach, refusing to meet his gaze—the little scared kitty again.

“Riley!” Captain Lewis warned, outrage crossing his face.

“She’s hiding something, Captain.” He’d seen it in her face. Something she’d heard had thrown her into a panic. All he needed was another minute to work her and she’d break.

“Get hold of yourself,” Captain Lewis demanded.

He wouldn’t get hold of himself, he couldn’t. His fury was too strong, too pungent; he could taste it with every breath he took. He was so close to the truth. He pulled the folder out of the captain’s hands and dumped the contents onto the desk for her to see. Pictures and papers spread haphazardly—pictures of three different women, all with long blond hair cascading in curls around their pale lifeless shoulders.

Pictures of women who looked like Michelle.

Pictures of women who looked like her.

His captain stepped forward. “Riley, we know how much Michelle’s death has affected you, but this behavior is unacceptable,” he warned. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’re skating on thin ice here, real thin.”

“The last murder took place in Miami, three years ago,” Riley said, his voice sounding cold and hard. “Where did you live before you came here, Miss Morgan?”

She didn’t answer, just stared at him with her round baby-blue eyes trapped in fear.

She should be scared, he thought. Real scared.

By now, everyone in the department was standing, listening, staring with curiosity alive on their faces. Riley swung the swivel chair she was sitting in, turning her around to face the captain and everyone else.

“Tony, where did Miss Morgan live before she came here three years ago?”

Tony opened his file. “Miami.”

“Whose locket did we find on Michelle?”

“Miss Morgan’s.”

Riley turned to his captain. “You think she doesn’t know something about this murder? You said we have a killer who goes after blondes—blondes that look a lot like Michelle.”

He turned and lifted the glasses off Miss Morgan’s shocked face, then released her hair from its clip. An audible gasp sounded throughout the room as long blond locks cascaded around her shoulders.

“Well, what do you all think about this?”

Stunned silence permeated the room.

“Riley, I want to see you in my office now.” Captain Lewis’s tone was soft and lethal. “O’Connor will stay with Miss Morgan.”

Riley followed him into the office and tried not to notice his captain’s clenched fists or the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

With a steely gaze, he pinned Riley to his seat. “You have a choice, MacIntyre—voluntary three-day bereavement leave with pay or mandatory three-day suspension without pay, and one extremely unhappy captain who will make your life a living hell. Which will it be?”

Riley groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands.

“You are not working this case. You were too close to the victim to be objective and your behavior with Miss Morgan proves that.”

Riley glanced at Devra through the office window. She’d managed to pull her hair back again, completely changing the way she looked. Pat O’Connor was smiling, patting her on the shoulder, comforting her after the trauma she’d been forced to endure. Somehow, he had to make the captain see he was on to something, that he was right about her. “That woman knows a lot more about this case than she’s letting on.”

“Based on what?”

“My gut.”

“Your gut isn’t good enough, considering the circumstances.”

“It’s never been wrong before and you know it.”

“The victim has never been part of your family before.”

The image of Michelle lying on the dirty French Quarter sidewalk flashed through his mind, making his own fists clench. “That’s bull.”

“The truth is you’ve never been this unhinged before. You’ve always been Mr. Cool, Mr. Confident—hell, Mr. Cocky. Now you’re a loose cannon and I won’t have your emotions jeopardizing this case. Take your three days and spend the time with your family. Rest, relax, and when you come back, you can focus on the night stalker case and let Pat and his team handle this one with the FBI.”

Somehow he didn’t think “Ladies’ Man Pat” would do what it took to find Michelle’s killer. “I can see his charm is working wonders on my suspect as we speak. She’s all ready to let loose and spill everything she knows any minute now.” They both watched Pat through the glass. Though he was trying, Miss Morgan was sitting as stiff and tight-lipped as a pastor’s wife in a Bourbon Street strip club.

“You’ve been known to load on the charm yourself,” the captain grumbled.

Usually, Riley thought, but not when it came to her. That woman just drove the charm right out of him.

“Just stay clear from her. Got it?” The captain ordered on an exasperated sigh.

Riley nodded, but continued watching Devra out of the corner of his eye.

“By the way, your father has called three times. I’m going downstairs. You can use my office to call him back. Consider that an order.”

Riley swore under his breath as the captain slammed the door behind him. Sometimes it didn’t pay to have a powerful father. He wondered how much his forced leave had to do with his old man, then pushed the thought out of his head. Tony had had the same idea earlier and if it’d been anyone else, Riley would probably even agree. Anyone with a loss of this magnitude should take their three days, but the worst part was having his case ripped out from under him.

Surreptitiously, he watched Miss Morgan. Three days of mandatory leave—three days to get that woman to crack. He raked a hand through his hair. Three days to get the answers he needed for his brother, Mac, and his old man.

A lead weight dropped to the pit of his stomach as he picked up the phone and dialed the ranch. “Hey, LuAnn,” he said when his stepmom answered the phone. “How’s Dad?”

“Devastated like the rest of us, but he’ll be glad to hear from you. Hold on, hon, and I’ll get him for you.”