Mallory Kane - Double-Edged Detective

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t give me ‘yes, sir.’ Tell me what you were doing arresting a kid in Mandeville at midnight last night. And don’t tell me this has anything to do with your serial killer obsession.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do both, sir.”

Mike scowled. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I was off duty. I observed a kid accosting—someone. He was acting drunk or high. I dispatched a couple of locals to run him in.”

Mike Davis sighed and sat up straight. “And the someone? That wouldn’t be that young woman whom you’ve been stalking, would it?”

Ryker studied the toes of his shoes. “The victim of last year’s foiled attack. Yes, sir.”

“Didn’t I refuse your request to provide protection for her?” Mike’s voice rose in volume.

“As I said, I was off duty,” Ryker said mildly. Mike couldn’t tell him what to do on his own time, but Ryker didn’t like bucking authority. He believed in going by the book. He also believed Nicole’s life was in danger.

And that belief took priority over any other.

“You’re going to give me apoplexy, Detective Delancey.”

Ryker wasn’t sure what apoplexy was, but he’d already noticed Mike’s red ears, a sure sign of an impending explosion. Now the redness was creeping down his neck and up his cheeks.

“Sir, I know that the man who broke into Nicole Beckham’s apartment last year is the same man who killed those other women. I know it.”

Mike sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve already told you, my hands are tied. If I combine the cases and make it official that we believe the deaths are the work of one man, I’ll have to appoint a task force, and involve the district attorney’s office. The media will be all over us.”

“Women are dying.”

“Not to mention that we’re shorthanded already. I need more evidence—a lot more.”

“Damn it, Mike. How much more evidence will it take? For four years he’s struck during the same week in October. It’s always a nighttime home invasion, always when the women are alone. And they were all born in October.”

“I thought one of them was born on November 1.”

Ryker gritted his teeth. “One day.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but there’s not enough consistency. You can’t connect the women. You’ve got different weapons, different dates.” Mike stood. “And it doesn’t help your case that you have a history with one of the victims.”

“It was a few dates back in college. I hadn’t seen her in—”

Mike held up a hand. “Spare me. I’ve heard it before. Now I’ve got a meeting. This discussion is over.”

“Fine.” Ryker blew out a frustrated breath. “Within the week, he’ll strike again, and I’ll get you your evidence. It’s a shame that another woman has to die to convince you.”

“Get out of here, before I fire your ass.”

Ryker beat a hasty retreat. Mike couldn’t fire him. Not without cause. But he understood his deputy chief’s frustration.

Even so, there was no way he was going to leave Nicole unprotected. It was October 21. Within the next few days, he fully expected the killer to strike again. There was no way he could stop him. But he’d be damned if the victim was Nicole.

THAT NIGHT AS NICOLE EXITED the restaurant, Ryker fell into step beside her.

She jumped and pressed her hand to her chest.

“I see you paid no attention to me,” he remarked. “I told you to drive.”

“I see you’re still following me.”

“Somebody has to look out for you if you aren’t going to take care of yourself.”

She sped up. He was surprised her heels didn’t strike sparks off the sidewalk. “I do not intend to act like a victim,” she threw back over her shoulder.

Ryker easily caught up to her. “Taking reasonable precautions is not acting like a victim.”

“I take reasonable precautions.”

“Walking alone at midnight is not a reasonable precaution.”

Nicole stopped at the stairwell that led up to the second-floor landing of her apartment building. “Look, Detective. After the break-in, I was so spooked that I gave up my job and my apartment. I will never feel that way again.”

He saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I understand. Is that offer for a cup of coffee still open? I’d like to tell you about this killer.”

Her eyes widened and shimmered. “Why? To terrify me?”

He shook his head. “No. To prepare you, in case he comes back to finish what he started.”

She shuddered. “In other words, to terrify me.”

He knew his words were harsh, but at this point, with only a few days’ window for the next attack, he’d do anything to get her attention. “If you insist on looking at it that way. But the more you know, the better prepared you’ll be.”

She swallowed and pressed her lips together as she studied his face. “Fine. Please,” she said wryly. “By all means, come in and have a cup of coffee and tell me about the killer who’s after me.”

She turned and climbed the stairs. Ryker followed her, taking the opportunity to admire her backside in the jeans she wore. She was trim, but with curves in the right places. He liked that. He didn’t like stick-thin women who looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

He gave his head a shake. This wasn’t about admiring her figure or considering how her firm curves would feel under his hands.

By the time she got to the top of the stairs she was digging in her purse. Ryker heard keys jangle. He grimaced. He’d have thought every woman everywhere knew to have keys out and ready. It could be dangerous to be fumbling for keys outside in the dark.

Nicole felt Ryker’s disapproving gaze on her as she unlocked her apartment door.

“I usually have my keys out before I get up here.” She winced at her tone. She sounded like a wimp. She had no need to make explanations to him. In any case, it was his fault she hadn’t pulled out her keys earlier. When he’d stepped up beside her out of the shadows he’d given her a scare.

“Maybe you could look at my locks while you’re here,” she said as she walked through the door ahead of him.

He paused for a second and glanced around the landing, then stepped inside and gave the locks a brief inspection before closing the door. “They look good,” he said. “Nice apartment.”

“Not as nice as the one I gave up in Chef Voleur,” she said, an accusatory note in her voice as she stepped behind the butcher-block island into the kitchen area.

She swallowed nervously. Ryker Delancey made her small apartment feel tiny. He wasn’t a real big man. He was six feet tall, but lean. He probably only weighed about one-ninety, but he filled up her living room—and her senses.

He sat on one of the bar stools at the island. “You didn’t grow up in Chef Voleur.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“No. I moved there when I got the job at the restaurant.”

“Where did you grow up?”

Nicole winced internally. In an apartment half this size with a mother who wasn’t there even when she was there.

“Baton Rouge,” she said noncommittally. “Do you really want coffee, or would you rather have something else?” She opened the refrigerator. “I have—water. There might be some bourbon—”

Ryker laughed. “Coffee’s fine with me.”

“Do you mind if I make it decaf?”

He shook his head.

She grabbed the decaffeinated beans from the cabinet and put them in the grinder. By the time they were ground, she realized he was standing beside her. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

His voice rumbled near her ear, disturbing and enticing. She took a fraction of a step away from his imposing presence.