Shiver. Cynthia Cooke
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white skin, blue eyes bulging with fear. He was getting more and more suspicious by the moment. She could see it in his face, could read it in his eyes. But she didn’t know what she could do about it.
Something twitched in his jaw. “Yes, she was.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze.
“So am I.”
“Well,” she stammered. “Are you almost done?”
“Almost.”
Devra turned back to the picture, unable to face the hardness in his face, and noticed the strong resemblance between him and the other man in the picture. “Brother?”
“Yeah. Okay, done.” He grabbed the paper out of the printer and thrust it at her.
She scanned it, then signed her name on the bottom.
“Riley, what are you doing?” a man boomed as he walked through the door.
“Just getting a statement, Captain.” The detective stood and faced the man, then gestured toward her. “Captain Lewis, this is Devra Morgan. It was her locket we found on Michelle.”
Devra stood uncertainly, trying to hide her nervousness.
The captain took only a second to size her up, then turned back to the detective. “Have Pat finish up her statement. You need some time off. Go home and be with your family.”
Devra sat back down and pretended to be reading her statement. He was being taken off the case. She smothered a smile.
“Captain—”
“I don’t want any arguments about it,” his captain continued. “You’re too close to this case to be objective. You could do more harm than good.”
“I’ve been living the night stalker case for thirteen months. I know it inside and out,” he insisted.
“At this point, it doesn’t matter. This wasn’t the night stalker.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This one is different, hair and fibers don’t match up.”
“That’s why Michelle was out there. She was trying to flush this guy out. Are you telling me someone else got to her?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Michelle was a good cop. Her death is a terrible loss for all of us. Do yourself a favor, Riley, go home and take care of your family. Take care of yourself.”
“There’s no way I’m dumping this case,” he said softly.
Captain Lewis gestured with the manila file folder clutched in his hand. “You don’t have a choice. The FBI is taking over.”
“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?”
Chapter Three
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