CHAPTER THREE

      “DEREK CHANEY’S DEATH might not have been accidental. He might have been murdered.”

      Katie made a sound of shock and Janie collapsed into one of his straight-back brown chairs. For a moment, Rafe again thought she might bolt from the room. Instead, her hands tightened on the chair’s arms until he expected her fingernails to leave a permanent mark.

      She might look small, but her imagination was big and usually spot-on. She took a deep breath and then, somewhat shakily, asked, “How?”

      Rafe only debated a moment before telling them straight out what Nathan had reported to him and what Justin believed. He wanted to see Janie’s reaction. Even more, he wanted her to understand just how serious the situation might be.

      She came to the same conclusion he did.

      “So, do you believe someone was trying to kill him because they knew he wanted to confess?”

      “I don’t have enough facts to make a judgment,” Rafe said.

      But he had already made a judgment. He agreed with Justin. Someone wanted Derek out of the picture. And even worse—

      Janie, however, didn’t give him time to decide what was worse. She did it for him. “And they obviously knew about the art book because it’s missing. What if he told them he’d given it to me, before they killed him?”

      Years of dealing with witnesses had taught him to be cautious, to not always share the worst-case scenario until he was sure, plus he wanted to reassure her. Aloud he said, “It could have been a drug deal gone bad, it could have been an accident. We don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet.”

      She shot him a dirty look before whispering, “Poor Derek.”

      Katie gasped. “What? Are you in shock or something? What do you mean ‘poor Derek’?”

      Katie was right to be worried. Right now there was no poor Derek; there was, however, a poor Janie. Rafe didn’t believe for a moment that Derek’s death had been the result of a drug deal gone wrong. Not just a few days after he’d turned in a possible murder confession. And, if Derek was killed to prevent his art book from seeing the light of day, then whoever killed him wouldn’t hesitate to kill again, had indeed already killed twice.

      Another thing that worried Rafe was how the murderer had tracked the art book to the school safe.

      Had the killer been on campus last night, watching Janie, waiting to get her alone? Had the killer watched as Janie read the book, watched as she walked to her boss’s office and then watched what the campus police did with the book?

      So many questions.

      But what Rafe found most chilling was that the same someone had been able to get the art book from the safe, quickly and seemingly easily.

      Janie must have been thinking the same thing because she asked, “Did they find anything at all in the safe? Are they already gathering DNA?”

      Rafe grimaced. Television had given DNA abilities it didn’t really have, like the ability to be everywhere. “A safe isn’t likely to cough up much DNA. Campus police report that this particular safe is opened by a code that has to be punched in. The crime-scene specialists will fingerprint the push buttons, but, keep in mind, the guard opened the safe this morning, technically putting his prints over whoever had opened it last.”

      Katie leaned forward, intent. “Did the Adobe Hills police officer say what was inside the safe this morning?”

      Finally, something he could answer. “A pair of handcuffs, two wallets and plenty of drug paraphernalia.”

      Which meant any of that DNA Janie’d been hoping for would be compromised.

      It hadn’t escaped Rafe’s notice that the two women were asking more questions of him than he was asking of them. But before he could form a question, Katie asked, “How long will it take to get back the results?”

      “The average is one hundred and twenty days.”

      The two towns in his county were small, so they were a low priority after both Tucson and Phoenix for the crime lab, located in Phoenix.

      A list of who knew the code to the safe could be helpful, yet he doubted an accurate list could be put together. Most likely the college had had the same safe for twenty years, and every officer, past and present, had been given the code. Add to that list the college president, the deans...

      Janie started to stand, decided to sit, then stood again, before finally plopping into the chair and burying her forehead in her hands. “Oh, man! I wish I’d never opened that art book. It was the first time Patricia was trusting me to evaluate the students’ work and offer comments.”

      “If it leads to Brittney’s murderer,” Rafe said, “then we’re glad you did read that art book. Her parents deserve closure.”

      “And I deserve to live to thirty!”

      “You will.” Rafe personally intended to keep that promise. His number one priority was finding Brittney’s killer while keeping Janie safe.

      He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until he needed to leave to testify in court, and while he didn’t want to leave the case or Janie, there was no reason for him to delay the court date. In an hour, the art book would still be missing; Derek would still be dead.

      And, for right now, Janie was about as safe as one could be at the Scorpion Ridge police station.

      But he did need to keep her busy. He didn’t want her to bolt or break down. “I’m going to turn you over to my chief of police,” Rafe said. “I’m going to have you look at some photos. See if you recognize any of Derek’s friends.”

      “He didn’t have friends,” she reminded him. “And I’m supposed to be at the university. I have classes today.”

      “I’m afraid you’ll have to miss them today. And you’ll be surprised what you’ll remember, the details you’ll recall, people and places.”

      “I should never have opened his art book,” Janie muttered again.

      “But you did,” Rafe said, “So now we’ll deal with it.” He smiled, trying to communicate that she wasn’t alone, that he’d do his job, take care of her.

      Then she gave him a glare that almost stopped him in his tracks. He was used to people being grateful, looking up to him, believing him, wanting to be taken care of, trusting him. Janie Vincent didn’t trust him.

      Before he was quite ready, she stood, practically tapping her foot in impatience. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

      “You want me to stay, Janie?” Katie asked.

      “No, you go on back to work. I’ll find—”

      “I’ll make sure she gets home,” Rafe asserted.

      Janie’s eyes narrowed. For some reason, Little Miss Vincent didn’t appreciate his offer.

      Rafe gathered up what he needed for court, and then followed Janie and Katie out his office door. Katie hurried toward the exit, checking her watch, too. Before Rafe could steer Janie toward the back room, she caught the attention of one of his auxiliary officers. The cop gave her an appreciative once-over before Rafe sent him packing. Then he gently guided Janie to the back room and set her up in front of a computer before summoning his chief of police, Jeff Summerside.

      It took her a moment to realize what he planned and then her only question was, “I’m surprised, as small as Scorpion Ridge is, that you’re not still using mug-shot books?”

      “I’m not even sure they still make Polaroid film,” he told her wryly. “As