The Sheriff Of Silverhill

Rafe shrugged. Even at eighteen years old, Dana could stand up to Pam…if she’d wanted to. “That was a long time ago. How’s Dad this morning?”

“The flu hit him hard, and it takes him longer and longer to recover from an illness. Doc Parker thinks Ralph needs to retire to a different climate.”

Rafe’s cell phone rang and he checked the display, which flashed Steve Lubeck’s number. His heart skipped a beat. It was too early in the morning for Steve and Dana to have uncovered anything at Holly Thompson’s house. He hoped it wasn’t another body. “I have to take this.”

Pam backed out of the kitchen with the tray almost groaning under the weight of Dad’s favorite breakfast. Pam may have broken up his parents’ marriage, but she catered to his father in a way his biological mother refused to do. His mother hadn’t possessed one nurturing gene in her body. She hadn’t contacted one of them since leaving over fifteen years ago.

Shaking his head, Rafe flipped open his phone. “Hey, Steve, anything new?”

“No, unless you count my burning ulcer. I need to see a doctor today. Do you mind going out to the Thompson residence with Dana to talk to Holly’s mother? We’re supposed to be there at eleven o’clock.”

Rafe pulled up his sleeve to check his watch. “Sure. Were you picking up Dana or meeting her there?”

“I was going to swing by her aunt’s house to pick her up. The Thompson place is on the other side of the reservation from Dana’s aunt’s house.”

“I’ll be there. Did you tell Dana yet?”

“Not yet. Do you want me to call her? I can give her a ring on my way to the doctor in Durango.”

“That’s okay. I’ll call her.” Rafe wanted to gauge her response to working with him. His presence seemed to put her on edge, and he planned to find out why.

A FTER THREE UNSUCCESSFUL phone calls to Dana, a three-mile run and a conversation with Alicia Clifton’s agitated boyfriend, Rafe pulled into the reservation. His patrol car rolled to a stop behind Dana’s rental, and as he opened the door, the wind snatched it from his hand and flung it wide. The winds always kicked up on the reservation. Before the oil money started pouring in, the winds stirred up a lot of dirt from the undeveloped lands. The winds still stirred up dirt, but now it came from the construction sites that dotted the reservation—dumping grounds for a killer.

Rafe’s gaze darted toward the thick foliage where Dana’s attacker had disappeared last night. One of Emmett’s officers had scoured the area this morning, but didn’t turn up one clue. The “Headband Killer,” as they’d secretly dubbed him, seemed to move about silently and stealthily, snatching women, murdering them and dumping their bodies without leaving a trace of evidence.

Rafe stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the sudden chill in the air. If it was their guy who accosted Dana, thank God all he had in mind for her was a warning. But why just a warning? Why didn’t he drag her off and strangle her like all the others?

For some reason, despite her Ute heritage, Dana didn’t fit his pattern. Or he didn’t want to mess with an FBI agent. Or maybe Dana was right—a wannabe attacked her, not the real killer.

He huffed out a breath in the cold air and stomped up the two steps to Mary Redbird’s door. Even though she’d married a Croft, everyone called her Mary Redbird or Auntie Mary. After Dana’s mother died, her aunt had raised her, since her stepfather, Lenny, was useless. He hadn’t been back in town two weeks, and he’d already caused a ruckus at the Elk Ridge Bar the other night.

He knocked on the door and Dana opened it, wearing slacks and a blouse. This time she had a shoulder holster with her weapon tucked inside, not packed away in her purse.

“What are you doing here?” She grasped the door and the doorjamb, blocking his entrance to the house.

“Steve’s ulcer is acting up. I’m going with you to interview Mrs. Thompson.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you were just in the neighborhood again.”

“I tried calling you on your cell phone a couple of times, but it went straight to voice mail.”

“We don’t have the best reception out here.” Her grip on the doorjamb loosened. “You should’ve tried my aunt’s number.”

Rafe jerked his chin forward. “Are you going to invite me inside this time?”

“We need to get going. I’ll get my jacket and…”

Auntie Mary ducked beneath Dana’s arm. “Nonsense. Come on in, Sheriff McClintock.”

Dana’s jaw tightened but she threw open the door, and Rafe squeezed past her to clasp Auntie Mary’s clawlike hand. “You can call me Rafe, ma’am. You’re looking as spry as ever.”

Thumping her cane against the floor, Auntie Mary chuckled. “Spry is only ever used for ancient people who haven’t dropped dead yet. It’s good to see you, Rafe. Haven’t seen much of you since you returned to Silverhill, but I did vote for you for sheriff.”

“That’s good to hear, ma’am. I’m just sorry such sad business brings me to the reservation.”

Auntie Mary shook her head. “It’s a tragedy for those girls and their families. As much as I like having my great-niece here, I hope you catch this killer quickly.”

“We will.” His gaze meandered around the cozy living room, settling on the crackling fire in the grate. He stepped toward the fireplace, holding out his hands. “It’s chilly outside. I think we’re going to have an early winter.”

Leaning forward, Rafe peered at the framed photos on the mantel—Dana’s high school graduation picture, Dana with the FBI director and several pictures of Dana as a young girl.

He reached forward to pluck one of the photos from the mantel and Dana shouted, “Let’s go.”

Jerking his head to the side, he almost dropped the frame. “What’s your hurry?”

Dana held her breath as Rafe clutched the picture of his daughter, Kelsey, in his hand. She should’ve seen this coming. The man traipsed around Silverhill, and even the reservation, as if he owned the place. Obviously, he figured he could show up on Auntie Mary’s doorstep day or night. She should’ve insisted Auntie Mary put away all the pictures of Kelsey.

She yanked her suit jacket over her holster. “It’s almost eleven. We need to get over to the Thompson house.”

Rafe placed the frame back in its place, and Dana let out a slow breath. She needed time to tell him about his daughter, safely at home in Denver with Dana’s cousin. She’d wait until the investigation ended because once he found out she’d been keeping this secret for ten years, they’d never be able to work together.

Raising his brows, Rafe glanced at Auntie Mary and she rolled her eyes and said, “You know Dana. Prompt. Punctual.”

“Just like you taught me.” Dana grabbed her coat from the closet. She had to propel Rafe out of this house—away from the photos, away from the memories.

Rafe turned his back on the fireplace and Kelsey. Dropping an arm around Auntie Mary’s shoulders, he bent to kiss her cheek. “We’ll catch up another time.”

Two circles of color dotted Auntie Mary’s cheeks as she smiled up at Rafe. Dana shook her head. Rafe’s easy charm affected all women, young and old. She’d figured out later, after a few psych classes, that the abandonment of his mother drove him to conquer every woman he met.

Did her desertion of Rafe after high school really hurt him like Auntie Mary suggested? He sure seemed to move on quickly.

“Ready?” Dana shrugged into her coat and shrugged off the memories.

Rafe tossed his keys in the air while they walked toward his patrol car. “Do you want to drive over to the Thompson place or walk?”

Normally, she enjoyed a nice, brisk walk, but if Rafe left his car here, they’d have to come back for it and he’d have another excuse to get inside Auntie Mary’s house. Dana couldn’t allow that. Not with those pictures of Kelsey adorning the mantel.

“It’s too cold for a walk.” She rubbed her hands together. “And I’m wearing high heels.”

“Good point.” He jabbed at his remote and opened the passenger door for her, placing his hand on the small of her back. Through her coat, suit jacket and blouse, the man’s touch scorched her. When he shut the door, she dragged in a deep breath and whispered, “Get a grip.”

He slid onto the driver’s seat and cranked on the engine. “Emmett told me one of his guys canvassed the area here this morning but didn’t find anything from the attack last night. Have you had any more trouble?”

“No. Emmett had Jimmy patrolling the reservation last night, and I think he made lots of loops around Auntie Mary’s place.”

“Good. I’m hoping that was our killer. It shows he’s cocky, too self-assured. That’s going to land him in trouble.”

“And if it was the killer who attacked me, he didn’t have murder on his mind. So even though I’m half Southern Ute, I don’t fit his profile for whatever reason.”

“The first two victims were full-blooded Ute.”

“The first two, but not Holly.” Dana chewed her bottom lip. “There has to be some other connection.”

A few minutes later, Rafe pulled his patrol car in front of the Thompson house. Dana shoved open the car door, grateful for the biting chill in the air. Sitting in close confinement with Rafe did a number on her senses. He didn’t even have to turn on the charm for her, his very presence, the timbre of his voice and his clean, masculine scent made her knees weak.

Weak knees—just what she needed for a serial murder investigation.

Rafe pushed open the gate in the front and it banged closed behind them, its latch broken. They climbed up the two steps to the sagging porch and Rafe rapped on the screen door since two pieces of dirty tape crisscrossed the doorbell. Louella Thompson obviously hadn’t used the money from the oil wells for home repair.

The door creaked open, and a tall woman, clutching a glass in her hand, peered at them through the screen door. “Sheriff McClintock? I thought the FBI was coming.”

“Afternoon, ma’am. One of the agents got sick. I’m his replacement, but I’m with the other agent. Do you remember Dana Croft? Mary Redbird’s great-niece?”

“Sure.” Mrs. Thompson clicked open the screen door. “I’d heard you were with the FBI, Dana.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Thompson. May we come in and ask you a few questions about Holly?”

Mrs. Thompson nodded and held open the door, ushering them inside. The smell of booze hit Dana like a sledgehammer. It rolled off Mrs. Thompson in waves. She gestured toward a small, plaid sofa. “Have a seat. Do you want a drink?”

Rafe held up a hand. “We’re officially on duty, Mrs. Thompson, but thanks anyway.”

Dana shooed an orange tabby from the sofa and sank onto the soft, worn cushion. Rafe perched on the edge next to her and swept off his hat.

Mrs. Thompson laughed, a hoarse sound, as if that laugh had been a long time coming. “I’m not offering you the bourbon, Sheriff. That’s all mine. I need it now more than ever. Would you like some coffee or water? That’s about all I got. How about some hot tea? I have that tea Auntie Mary likes, Dana.”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

Dana replied, “I’ll have some tea.”

Mrs. Thompson lurched toward the kitchen, and Dana pushed up from the sofa. “I’ll help.”

“You sit down. I need something to keep me busy.”

Dana exchanged a look with Rafe. As she settled back on the sofa, she whispered, “Do you think we should come back later? How much help will she be in this condition?”

“Maybe this is the only condition she has. Besides, the alcohol might loosen her tongue, bring down her guard.”

Mrs. Thompson appeared in the kitchen doorway, propping her shoulder against the frame. “The kettle’s on. What do you want to know about Holly?”

Dana cleared her throat. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

“Holly liked boys…maybe too much.” Mrs. Thompson swirled the amber liquid in her glass. “But she didn’t have one boy in particular. She dated around like a lot of twenty-one year old girls. Even dated that young sheriff’s deputy you have working for you.”

A muscle in Rafe’s jaw twitched, the only sign that this bit of information surprised him. His stoicism, the mark of a good cop, impressed Dana.

Rafe fished a notepad out of his breast pocket along with a pencil. “Can you give us a list of the guys Holly was seeing, including Brice Kellog? Any of them upset about not having an exclusive relationship with her?”

“Not that I know of.”

The teakettle whistled and Mrs. Thompson disappeared back into the kitchen. She called out, “Do you want any sugar?”

“No, thanks.” Dana mumbled to Rafe, “I’d better help her with that.”

She met Mrs. Thompson at the kitchen door and took the saucer from her unsteady hand. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Thompson? Sheriff McClintock left a piece of paper on the table for you to jot down Holly’s male friends.”

She helped Mrs. Thompson take a seat, placing her glass of liquid comfort on the table in front of her. Balancing her cup and saucer, Dana settled next to Rafe again. She inhaled the fragrant tea before taking a sip. Mrs. Thompson must have gotten the tea from Auntie Mary because it tasted and smelled like her own special blend.

Rafe asked, “Did your daughter seem worried about anything the past few weeks? Did she complain about anyone following or harassing her?”

“My Holly never worried about a thing. She was a high-spirited girl who liked to have fun.” Mrs. Thompson sniffled and took another gulp of bourbon.

“Did she keep a diary? Have a computer? Send e-mails to friends?”

“She spent a lot of time on the computer. Would you like to see it? It’s in her room.”

They followed Mrs. Thompson as she weaved down the short hallway, the cat threading between her ankles. She threw open the door to a small room, crowded with furniture and plastered with posters of tattooed singers and grungy-looking bands.

Dana stepped into the room. The heavy perfume of the wilting roses by the window saturated the air, and Dana massaged her temple against a sudden pain. She hoped her allergy to cats wasn’t kicking in.

Photos lined the edge of the dresser mirror, and she bent forward to study the smiling faces. Holly had a lot of friends, and a lot of those friends included men. If they planned to track down all of these guys, they had a huge task in front of them. But they could start with Brice.

Mrs. Thompson backed out of the room. “You two can look around. I’ll start working on that list.”

Dana noticed her empty glass and figured Mrs. Thompson probably needed a refill, or maybe she just couldn’t face her daughter’s bedroom.

“Are you surprised that Brice was seeing Holly?”

“Not really, but I’m surprised he didn’t mention it. I’ll be having a conversation with Brice about his relationship with Holly and about police protocol.”

Rafe straddled the chair in front of the computer and brought up Holly’s e-mail. “It’ll take a while to go through these. I suppose Mrs. Thompson will let us take the computer with us, or we’ll get a court order to confiscate it.”

“I’m sure she’ll let us have it without a court order.” Dana flipped up the lid of a small pink box on the dresser and a tiny ballerina sprang to life, spinning to Tchaikovsky. A warm flush spread across Dana’s skin, and she lifted the back of her hair and fanned herself. Where’d that cat go?

Rafe tapped a few keys on the keyboard and said, “I wonder if she has one of those My Space pages. Your cyber crimes unit could probably get us a password.”

“Mmm.” Dana smoothed her palm along Holly’s bedspread, and her hand tingled. Must be a little static electricity in the room .

She sat on the edge of the bed and rummaged through the nightstand. Didn’t look like Holly kept a diary, but she did have a variety of sex toys and a few condoms. Dana picked up a decorative hairbrush with strands of long, dark hair clinging to the bristles.

Running her fingers across the bristles, she closed her eyes. Her breathing deepened, and Rafe’s voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away.

An unseen force jolted her body and her hand curled around the carved handle of the brush as an explosion of lights flared behind her closed eyelids. The roaring in her ears blocked out all her other senses. Her body went rigid and then floated, weightless, timeless.

Then the vision took control of her mind.

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