No Holds Barred. Cara Summers
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in to make what looked like a perfect square. The Rose Petal Killer had been meticulous about that. In the tiny room, the sheet filled most of the available space between the couch and a TV stand against one wall. Duncan dropped to one knee and caught the edge of the sheet between his thumb and his forefinger and rubbed. Then he studied the rose petals. They all looked fairly fresh.
Nelson spotted him first and walked to the back of the sofa. “Thanks for coming, Sutherland. Take your time.”
He didn’t need any more time to answer the question he figured was foremost in Mike’s mind, but he’d learned a long time ago that the information he provided would be taken more seriously if he strategically delayed the delivery. “Any sign of a break-in?” he asked.
“No. She was out for a run when it happened. Claims she locked the door and took the key,” Nelson said. “The only person who has a spare key is the woman who runs the dress shop downstairs. We’ll question her as soon as she opens up.”
The lack of evidence of a break-in was consistent with the RPK’s pattern. The widely accepted theory was that his victims let him in. But that hadn’t happened in this case.
“We didn’t find any evidence that the lock was picked,” Nelson continued. “But a pro wouldn’t have had a problem with it.”
And a duplicate key made from a wax impression was also a possibility, Duncan mused. A robbery ring recently arrested in nearby Baltimore had accessed house keys by distracting parking valets at high-end restaurants. The customers would return home after an evening of fine dining to find their houses stripped. A stalker with the patience and skills of Patrick Lightman might have used a similar method to gain access to his victims’ homes.
It was when he was replacing the edge of the sheet that Duncan spotted the thin envelope that lay just beneath. He pinched the corner of it to draw it out.
“I want to know if Ms. MacPherson is in danger,” Monticello said.
As Duncan glanced up and met the older man’s eyes, his mind was racing. “Ms. MacPherson?” Piper wasn’t a common name and he recalled that Piper MacPherson had gotten her law degree from Georgetown Law School.
“Yes,” Abe said. “She works for me. I want to know just how much danger she’s in.”
Abe hadn’t mentioned her first name yet, but Duncan was beginning to get a feeling. Then Piper strode into the room and confirmed it in spades.
He hadn’t seen her in seven years, not since they’d stood beneath the stone arch at the castle and listened to their parents exchange vows. But every detail of her appearance slammed into his mind and pummeled his senses. The slender frame, the long, long legs that extended from narrow ankles to running shorts, the compact curves, slim waist and the dark brown hair that hung in a ponytail. He’d never been so aware of a woman as he’d been the day of the wedding. Or now.
“Whoever did this isn’t the Rose Petal Killer,” she said as she walked with economical grace toward Nelson and Monticello.
The voice with its low pitch and huskiness rippled along his nerve endings. It was the kind of voice that tempted a man to come closer. A whole lot closer. He imagined the mythical sirens who’d lured sailors to their deaths might have had voices exactly like hers. Which was why he’d kept his distance on their parents’ wedding day. He’d been about to graduate from college and had his sights set on the FBI. And their parents’ marriage had made the MacPherson girls family.
“Of course it’s not,” Abe Monticello said.
“The FBI is here to determine that for us,” Nelson said.
Duncan stayed right where he was. For a moment he still needed the distance, but he knew the second she became aware of him. He could see the tension ripple through her, and even as she turned, he braced himself. Seven years was still a long time.
But as he looked into those amazing amber-colored eyes, once again he felt the impact like a blow. Desire sprang up, primitive and strong enough to nearly have him rising from his crouch. Then he felt his mind empty as suddenly as if someone had pulled a plug. All he could see was her. All he wanted was her.
For seven years, he’d tried to convince himself that what he’d felt that day was a fluke. A onetime event. And he’d succeeded in compartmentalizing it.
But he knew now exactly what he’d known then. Piper MacPherson was it for him. The only one. For seven years he’d compartmentalized that, too. He’d tried to convince himself that she was family, and that meant hands-off. But as he continued to sink into the depths of those golden eyes, Duncan had a feeling that the lids on all those compartments had been blown clean off.
“You,” she said.
In Duncan’s opinion, she’d summed up his situation nicely. And what in the hell was he going to do about it?
PIPER CLOSED HER EYES. There was always the chance that she was hallucinating. Or her habit of visualizing was getting the best of her. But when she opened her eyes again, Duncan Sutherland was still crouched on the floor of her apartment.
For an instant, she certainly hoped it wasn’t longer than that. She felt just as she had when she’d stopped short in the open doorway of her apartment and seen the rose petals strewn over the white sheet.
Except that it wasn’t just shock she was feeling. And her blood hadn’t turned to ice. Instead, it seemed to be sizzling through her veins like an electrical current, melting bones and paralyzing muscles so that she wasn’t sure she could talk. Or move.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“This is FBI agent Duncan Sutherland, Ms. MacPherson,” Mike Nelson said. “He works for the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico. I asked him here because he worked on the Rose Petal killings.”
“I know Duncan,” Piper said. Okay, she was breathing and talking. In a couple of seconds, she’d get her thoughts back on track. Should she try stuffing him into a bottle? Would he fit?
A young uniformed officer appeared in the open doorway. “Sorry, sir. She got away from me.”
Piper managed to drag her eyes away from Duncan and glanced back at Nelson. “He was kind enough to get me coffee, and the caffeine helped me think.” And she was thinking again. Finally. She waved a hand at the sheet. “I came up here to save you some time, Detective. This isn’t the work of the Rose Petal Killer.”
“Tell me why not,” Duncan said.
Bracing herself, Piper turned to face him and managed to take one step closer to the edge of the sheet. And him. “Because the rose petals are so fresh. I read all the files. He used to buy the flowers over the course of days and save them up.”
“Too many roses purchased at one time, one place, might have drawn attention. Plus, there was some speculation that he bought them over time as little anonymous gifts for his victims,” Duncan said. “And if they saved them, he used those older petals.”
She narrowed her eyes. She’d read those very words in the files she’d worked on. And those details had never been released to the press nor had they made it into the court records. Duncan had worked on the cases, all right. Of course he had. He might even have consulted with the police on the Suzanne Macks murder.
“What else is different?” Duncan asked. “Take your time.”
She shifted her gaze to the sheet. “I should have done that instead of panicking.” She sank to her knees to get a better look. But what she was looking at and what she was feeling were two different things. She was close enough to touch him now. She could certainly smell him—sunshine and soap and something else that bumped up that sizzle in her blood.
Focus.
Ruthlessly, she shifted her attention fully to the details she’d only glanced at before. The edges of the sheet were tucked in to form a perfect square in the available space. That was right. No wrinkles. The RPK had always been neat and precise.