Kansas City Christmas. Julie Miller
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when he talked about work. “Any luck with the caliber?”
“I’m guessing a thirty-five mil. I should be able to give you something definitive by the morning.”
Holly was breathing normally now. Her smile was genuine. And another possibility regarding the mysterious shadow had presented itself. “Thanks, Rick. Say, were you down in the basement a few minutes ago, trying to catch me with your update? I was on the phone, but you could have come in.”
“No.” As her humor returned, his faded. “I just now came down from the ballistics lab. Are you checking on me every moment of every shift now? Or do you just miss working side by side with me?”
“We still have plenty of opportunities to work together. I thought someone might be looking for me, that’s all. Thanks. I’ll look forward to that full report.”
“First thing in the morning, I promise. You headed out?”
She nodded. “I’m done for the night. See you at seven?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Good night.”
“Boo.” He flashed his hands in her face, startling her slightly. “Too easy. Just too damn easy.” Rick’s chuckle disappeared with him into the men’s locker room.
Shaking her head, Holly pulled on her remaining glove and turned toward the exit to the parking garage.
Nine nights out of ten, Holly enjoyed working the late shift. With a few juvenile colleague exceptions, she preferred the quiet and solitude of the nighttime hours. Dealing with fewer people meant she could concentrate on her work. Dissecting bodies and processing biological evidence tended to have an isolating effect in the first place, but the calm and quiet and focus on the job were what allowed her to deal with crime scenes that could often be gruesome, and victims who were always some form of tragic. Having to deal with the victim’s family or witnesses on top of the crime itself could be draining.
Yet tonight she couldn’t seem to settle inside her skin.
Holly pushed open the thick steel door that led from the lab building into the attached parking garage. The heels of her boots grated against the concrete as she strode to her car, the abrasive grinding of soles and grit echoing off the walls of the garage. There was an edginess crawling through her veins, and despite knowing she’d be reporting to help with a double-shift in the morning, she was beginning to think she wasn’t going to be getting much sleep tonight.
She didn’t know if it was the unexplained shadow or the pesky anonymous phone calls that had her so off-kilter. Maybe it was Rick’s eternal pleasure at getting a rise out of her or the conversation she’d had with Eli. No doubt it was a combination of all those things that made her so uneasy.
Lengthening her stride, she hurried past cars and trucks and empty parking slots. She pulled her keys from her purse and squeezed her fist tighter around the shoulder strap. Chances were, she was subconsciously preparing herself for another surprise from Rick.
That’s why, when she heard a car door open, she didn’t immediately panic. Enough was enough. If he wanted to keep playing these games, then she would chew him up one side and down the other like the immature child he was.
Only, that was no child climbing out of the black Jeep next to her Honda. And it wasn’t Rick.
Holly stopped. Stared. Retreated a step as a dark-haired man slowly unfolded himself from behind the wheel.
Rick Temple was merely annoying. This guy made her curl her toes inside her socks and brace for trouble.
When she wore her high-heeled boots, Holly stood six feet tall. This guy was taller. Broader. The brass tip of a cane clacked against the concrete, drawing her attention down to the ground for a split second. When the car door closed, her gaze darted back up to collide with eyes that were gray and hooded and cold like steel. The late-night shadow of his beard was scraggly and dark and added an air of menace to his square jaw and angular features. Despite the cane, he moved from the shadows with a deliberate grace and Holly instinctively backed away.
“Dr. Masterson?” His gritty voice was deep in pitch, but hoarse, as though a cold had settled in his throat.
He knew her name? “Yes?”
Was that her pulse hammering in her ears? Or warning drums thundering inside her head?
The gray eyes cut right to the truth. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
Impossible.
“I need to talk to you.”
This man was no shadow.
And he was no practical joke.
Chapter Three
Great job, Lieutenant. The woman was running.
“Dr. Masterson?”
In the time it took her to spin around and move those long legs a couple of steps, Edward hooked his cane around her elbow. She twisted to escape but he tugged her off balance and caught her with his hand.
“Let go of me!”
When her leather purse came sailing toward his head like a roundhouse punch, he deflected the blow with his shoulder. “Hey! Watch it!”
A knee came next. He was forced to drop his cane and wrap both hands around her upper arms to protect himself.
“Let. Go,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You don’t understand.” There wasn’t much meat on her tall, lean figure, but what was there was all muscle. As his grip tightened, her struggles increased. “I just want to talk.”
“Then let go.”
“You’ll run.”
“I’ll scream.”
She was already making plenty of noise. Edward stifled a sigh. Their names had crossed during one investigation or another. He recognized her face from trials where they’d both testified. But he was still a virtual stranger. He should have introduced himself. Man, was he out of practice in dealing with people.
Trying to look less threatening and guessing he was failing miserably, Edward guided her back against a concrete pillar, easing his grip on the pink wool of her coat. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a…” Cop. Wrong. He couldn’t exactly say that anymore. “I’m Edward Kincaid. You know my brothers Sawyer and Atticus. You and I have met briefly before—a couple of years back. Through work.” He waited for the names to register, the recognition to show in her eyes. Framed by long sable lashes, they were hazel green with beautiful gold sunbursts, doubts and suspicion shining from them. His hands were simply resting against her sleeves now, though he had her escape pretty well blocked with his body. “I need to ask you some questions about my father’s murder.”
She finally stopped twisting like a fish on the end of a hook, but her nostrils flared and her narrow chest rose and fell, unexpectedly distracting him, as she fought to regain control her breathing and this ridiculously out-of-whack meeting. “John Kincaid? You’re his oldest son?”
“Yes.”
“The late deputy commissioner was your father?”
“Yes. You performed his autopsy.”
Her eyes narrowed past pretty and she batted his hands away. “Haven’t you heard of the telephone?”
“I thought this was a conversation better done face-to-face.” Raising his hands in mute surrender, he tried to show her—albeit a little too late—that he had no intention of harming her. “I didn’t expect you to think you were being assaulted. I guess my face has changed more than I realized since the last time our paths crossed.”
“You said that before. When did we work together?”
“We testified at