Kansas City Christmas. Julie Miller
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the place,” Edward answered, worried about just what kind of emotional roller coaster ride he’d signed up for when he’d agreed to help Holden find their father’s killer. “I’ll follow you.”
He had a feeling the man named Rick would be following him.
THE MOONLIGHT CAFE AND COFFEE BAR on the Plaza stayed open until two in the morning between Thanksgiving and New Year’s to make the most of the influx of tourists and locals who came to see the million-plus holiday lights decorating nearly every rooftop line of the historic upscale shopping and entertainment district. Whether they’d come to have a drink, see a movie or soak up the pervasive holiday atmosphere, the sidewalks and streets were crowded. People from all over the city, and visitors staying in the nearby hotels, were walking about, looking in dressed-up storefront windows and enjoying the festive glow that was both literal and metaphoric this time of year.
The steady fall of light snow that added an extra few inches of white to the hilly streets didn’t deter any of the couples sharing horse-drawn carriage rides. The dropping temperatures that nearly froze Brush Creek and the scenic walkway on either side of it didn’t keep groups of young-somethings from taking souvenir pictures and hopping from one establishment to the next. If anything, the wintry weather seemed to intensify the laughter and “Look there!’s” and romantic appreciation for the district’s Mediterranean architecture, statues and fountains, even if the water in the fountains had been turned off until spring.
Edward Kincaid, however, looked miserable.
Watching him across the polished black tabletop, Holly cradled a cup of almond green tea in her hands, warming her fingers and letting the aromatic steam waft through her nose and keep her senses energized. Edward had removed his leather coat to reveal that it wasn’t shoulder pads that made him appear so broad and intimidating. His size and height were the real deal. The color of the heavy knit charcoal sweater he wore reflected in his gray eyes and made them equally dark.
He didn’t smile, didn’t say much beyond the business at hand, yet his eyes never seemed to be still. Though he continued to face Holly over his mug of black coffee, his gaze darted around, seeming to take in any nearby movement—the waitress carrying a tray, patrons settling in at the bar area, a couple packing up and leaving the booth behind Holly. He studied Holly herself, whenever she raised her cup to take a sip, or when she spoke.
There was something slightly unnerving about the intensity of his steel gaze, an alert watchfulness that made him seem inordinately aware of his surroundings. The man just couldn’t seem to relax. Maybe it was a by-product of his time spent working as an undercover detective for KCPD’s drug enforcement team. Or maybe he just didn’t like the close confines of a crowd.
But to his credit, even when they had to wait ten minutes to get a table instead of sitting at the bar, he didn’t complain. And though he hadn’t zoned out on her again as though he was being buffeted by waves of pain, the way he had at the lab’s parking garage, he didn’t seem to say much more than he had to.
The brooding intensity and lengthy silences made Holly wonder just what was going on behind those alert, soulful eyes. Maybe because of the air of complexity that shrouded him, this secretive, solitary man definitely intrigued her.
“My apartment’s not too far from here,” she commented when she realized she was doing more studying than talking herself.
“One of the brownstones?”
Holly nodded. That’s why she’d picked this particular place to share a conversation. While she knew who the detective sitting across from her was, she didn’t really know him personally. And though she found Edward Kincaid the most interesting mystery to solve of the day, the practical experience of watching her younger sister allow one wrong man after another into her life—just to ensure her next fix—had taught Holly that acting impulsively on this strange attraction to the taciturn detective might not be the wisest move she could make. If things got too weird, she could quickly duck out and get home to the safety and serenity of her own place. “I live on one of the hills south of Brush Creek Boulevard, so I’ve got a great view of all the Christmas lights.”
He didn’t respond to that. After savoring a long drink from his mug, he shifted the conversation back to his reason for asking to meet her in the first place. “When you performed your autopsy on my father, was there any indication that he’d been wearing a ring?”
So much for getting acquainted. She’d already guessed that his raspy, low-pitched voice was a permanent thing—due to injury or surgery of some kind, not a temporary cold. And closer observation had shown her that his chocolate brown beard wasn’t unkempt, after all. Instead, the scraggly effect was actually a normal midnight shadow coming in around a splash of scars that dotted his jawline and right cheek.
On the outside, she was learning about—and unexpectedly liking—Edward Kincaid. But no way was he going to let her see the man behind the eyes.
She reminded herself that this wasn’t a date. He wanted to pick her brain about autopsies and corrupted lab reports.
“Let’s see.” Holly sipped her tea and sorted through the information inside her head. The kind of details he wanted had been deleted from her file by the virus, but she retained a mental image of every victim she’d ever worked on in her head and her heart. In her memory, she gently traveled over John Kincaid’s bruised and broken body, stretched out beneath the bright lights of her lab. “He had a wedding ring on his left hand.”
Edward sipped his coffee and nodded. “Mom insisted he be buried with it. Could there have been a second ring?”
Her eyes closed and she drifted back in time to her lab. She tried to picture each hand in her mind. No indentations at the base of any finger, indicating the habitual wearing of any other jewelry. But a remembered notation popped into her head and she opened her eyes. “Wait.” She set her cup in its saucer and leaned forward, gesturing across the back of her neck. “There was a long, thin abrasion at his nape. I thought it might be related to the beating he took. He’d been tied up so…”
A muscle ticked along his jaw as Edward pressed his lips into a thin grim line.
Holly instinctively reached across the table, cursing her own careless words. “I am so sorry.” Just as quickly, she curled her fingers into her palm and drew them back. He was here for information, not sympathy. “It’s a professional thing,” she explained. “I have to stay clinical when I make these kinds of reports—so emotional reactions don’t clog my perception of things—but I know it’s personal for you. You don’t want to hear—”
“I want to hear anything that can help.” His words indicated that he’d learned to detach his emotions from his job as well. “Tell me about the mark on his neck.”
For a moment, Holly was struck by the sheer strength of will it took to go through everything Edward Kincaid had suffered and still be able to get up in the morning, much less carry on a conversation or run an investigation into something so personal, so violent. Maybe she’d just gotten her first glimpse inside the man.
And maybe she’d better shut off her speculation and any resulting compassion or admiration. He clearly didn’t want to deal with his emotions. Holly took another sip of the tea that had grown tasteless on her tongue and continued. “I wish I could review my notes to be sure, but if I remember correctly, the mark was made postmortem. Something like that could be caused by tearing a necklace off someone’s neck. Could your father have been wearing the ring on a chain?”
“It’s possible. If the ring was something he’d had for a while, then it might not fit his fingers anymore. I never knew him to wear one. But then…” he leaned back against the black vinyl seat, “I dropped out of his life for a while.” After losing his wife and daughter to a vengeful André Butler, that was probably an understatement. “I didn’t even know he was looking into Z Group on his own time, so, why would I know about changes in the style of jewelry he wore?”
“Z Group? Your brother Atticus mentioned that when I was working a Jane Doe murder investigation with him. He thought she