Rocky Mountain Mystery
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“I think there’s another reason you haven’t gone back to work,” he said gently. “I don’t know the label. Trauma. Fear. Sorrow. All of the above.”
“Maybe.” Blair had tried psychological therapy and quit when she didn’t make measureable headway.
“Were you ever able to recall what happened in the accident?”
She shook her head. She remembered driving with Jake. The windows on the car were down, and there was a breeze. Riding in a car with Jake behind the steering wheel was always a harrowing experience. Too fast. He always drove too fast. “I don’t remember the crash. My mind is a blank until I woke up in the hospital. I assume I was in shock.”
“Me, too,” he said. “After Danielle was killed, I went into emotional shock. The way I coped was writing about it. So there’s the answer to your question. I keep writing, keep digging into serial killings because I need to make sense of it. For my sister. And for myself.”
He might have undertaken an impossible task. “Do serial killings ever make sense?”
“Not in a rational way.”
She couldn’t quite believe that they were standing here, holding hands and talking about heinous crimes. “I should get going. Adam needs my decision in less than two hours.”
“I’d like to see you again,” David said. “Can I take you to lunch sometime?”
“How about now? Come upstairs with me, and I’ll make you a terrific tuna salad sandwich.”
“You’re on.”
Side by side, they left the swimming pool, crossed the lobby and boarded the elevator. Though Blair suspected that David was coming upstairs to convince her to investigate the Fisherman, his attention pleased her. He’d asked her to lunch. He wanted to spend time with her.
At her condo on the fifth floor, she unlocked the door. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just run into the bedroom and get changed.”
“Do you have to change?” David followed her into the living room. “I like the blue bathing suit. It shows off your curves.”
Her curves? Apparently, David had noticed more about her than her damaged leg. “Were you ogling me?”
“I’m a reporter. A trained observer.”
“And what have you observed?”
“Curves. Nice curves.”
His blue-eyed gaze rested warmly upon her. His masculine appreciation was unmistakable.
Blair didn’t know what to think of this attention from David Crawford, whom she’d always placed in the category of friend rather than boyfriend. Of course, she’d considered the possibility of dating him. With his black hair and blue eyes, he was handsome. And he was funny. And kind. Could there be something more between them than friendship?
“Come on, Blair.” His eyebrows lifted, teasing. “Let me see that bathing suit again.”
“If you want curves, take a drive down the Pikes Peak.”
“Are you scared to give me another glimpse?”
He was definitely flirting with her. It had been ages since she’d played this kind of game with a man. “Scared of you? No way.”
“Then do it.”
“Open my robe?”
“Or forever be branded a coward,” he said.
“I’m no chicken.” She untied the terry cloth sash. She literally put her best leg forward as she slowly parted the material and offered him a view.
“Very nice.” The corner of his mouth curved in a half-grin, and he reached toward her. His hands slipped inside her robe and rested on either side of her rib cage. “You’re perfectly proportioned.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Lady, you’re close.”
She ought to object to his overture. Blair wasn’t the kind of woman who tumbled easily. She had more self-control in her little finger than most people had in their whole body. But, instead of pulling away, she leaned toward him.
She wanted to be held—wanted her electric-blue swimsuit to leave a damp impression on his rumpled shirt and khaki trousers. And she offered no objection when his lips touched hers. The pressure of his mouth was firm but tentative. This wasn’t a passionate kiss but more of an exploration, a testing of boundaries.
Then his hands encircled her torso, and he pulled her closer, crushing her against him.
His kiss became more demanding. His tongue forced her lips to part.
A sudden, pleasant heat shimmered through her body like a mirage. Her boundaries crumbled as she swooned against him. It had been so long. She’d missed this tenderness, this passion, this intimacy. She wanted to let go of all inhibitions and tear away their clothes.
But that would be crazy. Foolish. She would never risk her heart again. Awkwardly she separated from him, taking a clumsy step backward, ending their delicious embrace. “How did that happen?”
“I could show you again,” he offered.
“I think not.” When she turned away from him, a secret smile of pure delight played across her lips. “Now, I’m going to change clothes.”
“I like black lingerie,” David said.
“Dream on.”
“I will.”
As he watched her leave the room, David exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He felt like a very lucky man. Three times lucky.
Once lucky because when he contacted CCC, the first name Adam mentioned was his old friend, Blair.
Twice lucky because Blair was glad to see him.
Lucky times three, because she kissed him back. He’d felt her body yearning toward him, and he could tell that she was as hot as he was. Maybe even hotter.
He strolled across the carpet and sank into a recliner chair. Why hadn’t he kissed her sooner? Years sooner?
Leaning back in the chair, he checked out her condo. The recliner where he sat was the only comfortable piece of furniture. The rest of the room was exercise equipment: a treadmill, a stationary bicycle and a mat for floor exercises. There was a small table with two chairs in the dining area—not a space that was large enough for entertaining. The blinds were drawn.
David recognized the no-frills decor. This was a purely functional space for a single person. In that way it reminded him of his own town house, which was nicely furnished but unused except for the desk and the bed.
In just a few minutes she returned to the living room. She wore jeans and a purple jersey shirt with a white collar. Her gait was different. He assumed that her black shoes were fitted with lifts that made walking easier. She’d blown dry her short brown hair in a cute tousled style that made him want to run his fingers through it.
“I have a question,” she said. “About the woman who was killed yesterday, what was her profession?”
David knew exactly where she was going. The Fisherman chose his victims carefully. Though he was subtle, there was evidence that he stalked these women before he abducted and killed them. His six victims came from three workplaces: hospital, newspaper and law enforcement. “She was a cop.”
Blair cringed. “I assume she wasn’t on duty.”
“She was retired,” he said. “A former homicide detective. She quit the force last year to stay home with her family.”
“Oh, no. She had kids?”
“Two boys. They’re both grown and in college. The victim spent most of her time taking care of her aging parents.” There was one more piece of information he needed to tell her. “This latest victim was one of the investigators on the Fisherman murders five years ago.”
“Her name?”
“Pamela Comforti.”
Blair gasped. “I knew her.”
David was beginning to regret his request that Blair get involved in the investigation. She’d been through enough. She didn’t need to be dragged back into this tragedy. “I’m sorry.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “There’s not much time before I need to call Adam. What do you think I should do?”
“I’m torn,” he said honestly.
“Why?”
“Of course I want your input. You were the medical examiner in charge of the prior murders. You’re smart. You know how to interpret the data. And you know the Fisherman’s modus operandi.”
However, as she’d mentioned before, the prior investigation had become personal. At the time, Blair had been assigned a bodyguard. “Why did the police consider you a target?”
“Godiva chocolate.” She went toward the kitchen. “Come in here with me while I make sandwiches.”
He followed her to the small galley kitchen. Though David knew most of the details on the Fisherman murders, her reference wasn’t familiar. “What about Godiva chocolate?”
“It was a detail that the police kept secret,” she said as she went to the fridge and took out the makings for sandwiches.
“Are you going to tell me?” he asked.
She turned and faced him. Her green eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes, shone bright. “Because I did the autopsy on the first victim, the Fisherman serial murders became my case.”
He nodded. Standard procedure for the Coroner’s Office was to maintain consistency on related murders. “Go on.”
“My autopsy results on the contents of the stomach and upper GI showed that every victim, after the first one, had eaten chocolate a few hours before her death.”
“So?”
“Specifically, it was Godiva chocolate.”
David still didn’t get it. “What does this have to do with you?”
She pointed to a gold foil box on the kitchen counter. “I’ve always had a passion for Godiva chocolate. Some of the forensics people even called me Lady Godiva. The police deduced that the Fisherman was feeding his victims my favorite chocolate before he killed them.”
“As a sick threat to you.”
“Very sick,” she said.
David’s jaw tightened. “Call Adam right now. Tell him to forget about the autopsy. I don’t want this psycho coming after you again.”
“Neither do I.” Pensively she frowned. “But it’s not my choice. It’s up to the Fisherman. He makes the decision about who’s next.”
Chapter Two
Blair opened the gold box of Godiva and popped a mini-truffle into her mouth. The rich chocolate melted comfortingly on her tongue. Of course she worried about the Fisherman and the scheduled autopsy and an investigation that might turn deadly. She’d be crazy not to be nervous. However, a different concern was uppermost in her mind. David.
As she made sandwiches at the kitchen counter, he stood near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. She could smell him—a clean scent like soap and fresh laundry.
“Blair.” The way he spoke her name sounded like an endearment. “I don’t want you to do anything that might be dangerous.”
Like kissing you? While she’d been changing clothes, the fact that they’d kissed had absorbed into her consciousness. There was an obvious sexual buzz between them, but she didn’t understand why or where it might be going. Was she ready for a real relationship? Would she be satisfied with less?
“Blair, are you—”
“Fine, I’m fine.” She flapped her hand, brushing away his concern. “There’s nothing dangerous about my life, David. The way I figure, my odds of being attacked by a serial killer are about a hundred thousand to one.” Which was roughly equivalent to the odds of a single thirty-four-year-old woman who seldom left her house finding a meaningful relationship with a man. “Wildly unlikely.”
“Wrong,” he said. “The Fisherman isn’t a random killer. His targets are—”
“I know. Women who work in medicine, law enforcement or the media. None of which applies to me. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t work anywhere.” Without turning around to look at him, she groped for the door to the refrigerator. “What do you want to drink?”
“Any kind of soda pop that’s not diet.”
Her teensy kitchen wasn’t big enough for two people, but he continued to hover as if lurking within a three-foot radius would somehow protect her from a psychotic murderer. She grabbed two cans of pop from the fridge and circled to face him. “Excuse me, David. It’s a bit crowded in here.”
“I should hire a bodyguard for you.”
“What?”
He dropped his hands to her shoulders and stared intently at her. “Let me do this. I’ll hire somebody who won’t get in the way. Not a guy. A woman bodyguard. A really big woman who knows martial arts.”
“You want to hire Xena the Warrior Princess to look after me?”
“If that’s what it takes,” he said.
This time, when she looked up into his well-meaning eyes, she didn’t have the urge to kiss him. It was the opposite: she wanted to punch that lantern jaw. Who did he think he was? What gave him the right to come in here and disrupt her life?
He said, “You need protection.”
“What I need is space.”
She pressed the icy aluminum cans in her hands against his chest, and he recoiled.
“Damn, Blair. That’s cold.”
“Be glad the pop cans aren’t open. I might have dumped the contents on your pointed head.” She glared. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The Fisherman is in jail.” She nodded toward the other room. “We’re ready to eat. Go sit at the table.”
He left the kitchen but didn’t sit. “I’m not letting go of this, Blair. Yesterday’s victim was involved with the prior investigation. Just like you.”
“Enough.” She slammed the pop cans down on the table. “As of this moment, I’m officially declaring a moratorium on discussion of the Fisherman.”
“You can’t ignore this,” he said.
“Accept my conditions or leave.”
He pulled out a chair and sat.
Silently she counted to five, allowing her emotions to settle. “We’re going to have a nice lunch. Just a couple of old friends, renewing our acquaintance.”
She glanced at her small, round dining table that was old enough to qualify as antique but not polished. She should have covered the scratched-up veneer with a tablecloth or thrown together a centerpiece—something to make their lunch more cosy. But her tablecloths were stuck away in a linen drawer. What could she do to make this lunch more civilized?
“Wine?” she asked.
“No.”
“Music,” she said, turning on the radio, set to the classical station. “Rossini.”
“Oh, yeah. Nothing like a good rotini.”
“That’s a pasta, David.”
“Whatever.”
She opened her vertical blinds. Daylight from the floor-to-ceiling windows splashed into her condo. On the fifth floor, she was just above the leafy green treetops. Her windows faced west, and it would’ve been a spectacular panorama if other high-rise buildings hadn’t been in the way. As it was, she could only see slices of the Rockies.
Busily, she set lunch on the table. Tuna salad sandwiches and blue corn chips. Her fiesta-ware plates looked…festive, but the paper napkins were terminally tacky. At the very least, she ought to have decent glasses for the soda pop. Returning to the kitchen, she climbed onto the counter to reach the top cabinet shelf where she kept her crystal. The goblets were dusty.
“Blair? What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing.” She climbed down and grabbed two plain water glasses that she filled with ice and brought to the table. “Should I light a candle or something?”
“Not on my account,” David said.
But she wanted their lunch to be pleasant—free from thoughts about serial killers, free from the tragedies of the past. She wanted to pretend that David was here because he found her attractive and interesting. This casual lunch was the closest to a date she’d had in months. Pathetic! “I’ve got to get out more.”
“Likewise.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I keep telling myself that I need a hobby, like golf.”
“An old man’s game,” she said as she sat.
“Not since Tiger Woods.”
David’s expression seemed wary as he peered across the table and chewed. She sensed that he was waiting for the right moment to launch into more talk of the Fisherman, his personal obsession. Not just yet, old pal. She was determined to engage in polite conversation, and the topic was golf. “I used to caddy for my father,” she said. “I think he uses a cart now.”
“Where are your parents living now?”
“Near Tucson. Yours?”
“They’re still here in Denver.”
She asked if he’d read any good books or seen any movies. And he asked what she put in her tuna salad. Gosh, they were boring! If their small talk got any more amiably bland, they’d both fall asleep. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me about your travels.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Which bizarre crime scene would you like to hear about?”
Actually, she was rather interested in neurological damage in the Texas hammer murders, but she didn’t want to start down a slippery slope that might lead to the Fisherman. “You were in Texas. Tell me about the wide-open spaces.”
He wrenched the knot loose on his necktie. “How long are we going to dance around the issue, Blair?”
She tossed her napkin on the plate, symbolically throwing in the towel. “All right. The Fisherman. Talk.”
David laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles like a concert pianist preparing to play Rachmaninoff. “Everybody assumes that the right man was convicted because the killing stopped when he was arrested. Like you said, it’s not typical for a serial killer to take a break. But not unheard of. For example, the Green River murders in Washington. That guy killed more than forty women in two years. Then he stopped.”
“He was recently apprehended,” she said. “Was there an explanation for why he stopped?”
“He might have continued killing in a different location. The cops are trying to link him to various other unsolved crimes.”
“What are some other explanations for a time lapse?”
“The killer moves. Or dies. Sometimes, they get arrested. Then, when they’re released, they start up again.”
Another possibility occurred to her. “Maybe yesterday’s murder wasn’t committed by the Fisherman. It might be a copycat crime.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Part of the Fisherman’s thrill was a power trip. He liked outsmarting the cops. Remember? He used to send notes to a columnist at The Post.”
“Ted Hurtado.” He was another friend of Jake’s. “Wonder whatever happened to him.”
“I’ll look him up,” David said. “Ted’s a good place to start.”
She was a bit confused about the logistics. David had contacted Adam at CCC, but it sounded like he had plans of his own. “Are you going to investigate? You personally?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing for the past five years. Looking into crime and analyzing.”
“What part does CCC play?”
“Adam said he would compile the old case files and court records. If I came up with questions, he would have volunteer experts who can help.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You were the first name he mentioned. He said you were the best at reviewing forensic medical evidence.”
For a moment, she had a glimmer of déjà vu, remembering when she was a medical examiner working with the other forensics experts and detectives. She liked being part of that team, tracking down clues and putting together the pieces of a puzzle.
Her part in crime-solving wasn’t often a source of pulse-pounding excitement. Rather, her work involved meticulous study, attention to detail, science and reasoning. But when she was able to contribute to an arrest, she experienced a deep satisfaction.
Should she attend the autopsy? Was there any way her presence would help unravel the past or solve the present crime?
David asked, “How did you get involved with Adam?”
One day he showed up on her doorstep without prelude or introduction. In direct, no-frills terms, he told her of his mission: reviewing old cases, offering expert evaluation when called upon by the police or looking into suspicious events. When Blair agreed to act as a consultant, CCC paid her expenses and, sometimes, offered a small stipend. But she didn’t do this work for the money. Her disability insurance payments and savings were sufficient to live on.
“Adam came to me, and I couldn’t say no.” She believed in his goal to help the surviving family and friends find closure. “I have skills. They were going to waste.”
“Have you thought about other work options?” David asked. “Like teaching?”
“I’ve considered teaching forensic medicine.”
But she wasn’t ready to settle for less, to take a diminished position. When the accident forced her to leave the Coroner’s Office, she was at the top of her game. All the cops wanted to work with her. Her opinions were sought after.
She didn’t want to return to the field as a pathetic loser—a has-been who never really was. It felt as if she’d failed. The thought of limping back to the Coroner’s Office this afternoon seemed like an exercise in humiliation. “I think I’m going to take a pass on the autopsy this afternoon.”
David nodded. “There’s another issue I want to talk to you about. I’d like to see you again.”
She couldn’t imagine why. They obviously had nothing in common but a weird interest in violent crime. She and David were both damaged people, struggling to overcome the disasters in the past. If she was smart, she wouldn’t see him again. Why sign up for a voyage on the Titanic when you know it’s going to run into an iceberg?
“Tomorrow’s Friday,” he said. “May I take you out to dinner?”
“Yes.” The word popped out of her mouth. “What should I wear?”
“Something skimpy.” He stood and pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket. He placed his business card on the table. “Call if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you at seven tomorrow night.”
She accompanied him to the door. “One question, David. When I saw you a year ago in the grocery store, why didn’t you call?”
“Timing.” He had a ready excuse. “I was on my way out of town. When I came back, it seemed like too long. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I’m old-fashioned. I believe in letting the man make the first move.”
“Yeah, right.” David doubted that she had one non-assertive, old-fashioned bone in her entire delectable body.
“There were other reasons,” she said, “that you didn’t call me.”
“Right.” When he saw her a year ago, David had pitched backward in time. She reminded him of the investigation, the Fisherman. “I wasn’t ready.”
“For what?”
“Memories. Keeping the past where it belongs.”
“The past isn’t all bad,” she said.
“Not entirely.” He remembered taking care of her after the accident, nursing her. There was something very satisfying about being needed. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?”
She nodded. “And we both survived.”
He looked down into her turquoise eyes. “It’s time to write a new chapter in our story—one that includes a lot of kissing.”
“You sound awfully romantic for a true crime reporter.”
“Tomorrow,” he said as he closed the door behind himself and went down the hall to the elevator.
Her condo building had fairly decent security, but David didn’t think it was enough if Blair was really in danger. No surveillance cameras on the floors. And there wasn’t a doorman. Earlier today, he and Adam had gained access to the swimming pool by buzzing the resident manager and asking where they could find Blair.
Until he knew what was happening with the investigation, he wanted to make sure she was safe. Since she wouldn’t let him hire a bodyguard, he’d take on that duty for himself.
At his Cherry Creek town house, David parked in front and ran up the concrete steps. He unlocked the door and charged inside, full of purpose. His gun, if he remembered correctly, was in a shoe box on the top shelf of the downstairs linen closet. He glanced past the sunken living room to the kitchen counter where Jake stood, eating pizza in the midst of scattered newspapers.
“Hey, bud,” Jake called out. “What’s up?”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“In about an hour. There’s a press conference on last night’s murder.”
At the linen closet, David pushed aside the stacked sheets on the top shelf. He found the box, opened it and took out his black Glock automatic. The heft of the weapon felt good in his hand. He held the gun straight out and sighted down the barrel.
“What the hell?” Jake stood at the end of the hall. “What’s going on?”