About the Author

MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

Mallory loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats.

She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com

Double-Edged Detective

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright

To my mother, who only ever wished the best for me.

Chapter One

Albert Moser sat in his worn easy chair with his daughters’ photo album on his lap. It bulged with photos, snapshots and small remembrances of happy times and places.

Christmas Leigh a nd Autumn Lynn, each named for the time of year they were born. Moser slid his fingers along the edge of the pages. The first half of the album was about his daughters’ lives. He’d devoted the last half of the book to something else entirely.

He looked up at the calendar he’d hung on the wall next to his TV so he could watch the months, the weeks, the days go by. And they had. Somehow, he’d made it through another year. Somehow, it was October again.

He flipped over to the back of the album, where he’d pasted newspaper clippings, notes and baby photos. Behind them, stuck between two pages, was a small stack of insurance forms. Four years ago, the stack had seemed huge. During his career, he’d sold a lot of life insurance policies to parents for their newborns. Then, when Rudolfo Gomez had retired, Albert had taken over his customers, too.

Once he’d culled out the males and the people who had moved away or died, the stack had dwindled to ten. He counted. Only six were left. Six policies taken out at birth on six baby girls. Now they were grown. Young women with their lives ahead of them, just like his Autumn.

And like his daughter, they had no idea that one of them had only a few days to live.

Albert Moser sighed. He didn’t want to do it. The weight of the women’s lives was heavy on his shoulders. He wasn’t sure he could stand under the weight of another one. It had been four years.

For a brief moment, he considered turning himself in and begging them to find his daughter’s killer. He’d tried begging. But the police had dismissed Autumn’s murder as a mugging. He knew it wasn’t. He just knew it.

The telephone rang. Albert started and almost dropped the album. He didn’t have to wonder who was calling. It was Christy. His older daughter was the only one who ever called him. He picked up the handset.

“Dad? Hi. How are you?”

“I’m okay. How’re you doing? Is it cold in Boston?”

“Always,” she said with a laugh. Her low, slightly husky voice reminded him of her mother. “So how are you doing? Are you eating? Taking care of yourself?”

“I’m doing okay.”

“Dad, you need to get out. Why don’t you call some of your buddies and play some golf?”

Albert didn’t answer. Christy had been pushing him ever since Autumn’s death to get out, get some exercise, see some of his old friends.

“Well, I just wanted to call and see how you are, and—”

“Autumn’s birthday’s in six days,” Albert interjected. “She’d be twenty-six now, you know.”

“I know.” Christy sighed. “Dad, I called tonight because I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow. I’ll be gone for a week. I’m speaking at the Children’s Health Issues Summit in Munich.”

“Okay.”

“Think about coming to Boston for Christmas, Dad. I can’t get time off. Christmas is always a busy time for pediatricians. But we could sightsee, go to some good restaurants.”

“I’ll see,” Albert said. He shuffled the insurance forms he held, looking at the birth dates on the policies. “You know, Christy, the police still aren’t doing anything about Autumn’s murder.”

“Dad—”

“She was murdered. You know how scared she was of that man she was seeing. He killed her. I’m sure of it.”

“Dad, please stop trying to figure out who it was. It’s eating you up inside.”

“You’re right there. It is.”

“Think about coming up here for Christmas.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Christy said goodbye and hung up, leaving Albert feeling more lonely than he had before she called. Her voice echoed through the empty house.

It’s eating you up inside.

Yes, it was. And there was only one thing that would stop the gnawing pain.

He had to continue his crusade. Eventually, the police would look back and know he’d been right all along. Autumn Moser was murdered. Then they’d realize that these young women wouldn’t have had to die if they’d paid attention to him. They’d be sorry they’d dismissed him.

DETECTIVE RYKER DELANCEY polished off the last bite of Coquilles St. Jacques and took a final sip of wine. He sat back and glanced at his watch. Almost eleven o’clock. Closing time. Only a few late diners were still lingering over coffee or dessert at L’Orage.

It hadn’t been easy to adapt to eating dinner so late, but with the anniversary date about to roll around, Ryker wasn’t taking any chances with his only living victim.

Speaking of—a familiar figure in a white coat emerged from the kitchen. Nicole Beckham. She smiled as she greeted a couple a few tables away. Ryker had no trouble hearing their conversation in the subdued, intimate atmosphere of the upscale continental restaurant. The two were regulars, and they always asked to speak to the chef. Nicole always responded the same way.

“I’m so happy you enjoyed it. It’s always wonderful to see you.” Nicole’s green eyes sparkled with genuine pleasure. Her pixieish face lit up when she smiled. She acted as if the couple were the only people in the room.

Ryker glanced around at the lingering diners. A woman he’d seen a few times before was reading what looked like a legal brief as she ate. As he watched, she glanced up at Nicole, then pulled out her cell phone. She spoke briefly then set it down beside her plate and went back to her reading. Three tables beyond her a young couple were feeding each other white chocolate bread pudding and kisses. Ryker knew how their evening was going to end.

His gaze traveled to the last patron, a regular in his mid-fifties who was looking at his watch and wiping his mouth at the same time. The man glanced up and met Ryker’s gaze. He nodded, then folded his napkin and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

Ryker glanced back at Nicole, just as she turned toward the kitchen. Her gaze met his and just like every time she saw him, her eyes widened for an instant, and then her smile faded.

Ryker’s mouth twisted wryly. No warm greeting or dazzling smile for him. She didn’t want him in her restaurant. He couldn’t blame her. She’d informed him in no uncertain terms the first time he’d showed up here that seeing him brought back the memory of her attack a year ago. He regretted that. But he wasn’t about to leave her alone and unprotected. Especially now, only one week before the anniversary date of her home invasion.

Since that first confrontation, she’d been polite, but aloof. He’d never gone out of his way to speak to her. In fact he rarely saw her because she rarely emerged from the kitchen.

Still, he knew she was there, and that made him feel better. If she was there at the restaurant, cooking, then she was safe.

As he set his napkin beside his plate and glanced around for his waiter, he saw her turn on her heel and head his way with a determined glint in her eye. Leaning back casually, he waited to see what she was going to do. She wouldn’t make a scene. She was executive chef. It would be in bad taste.

“Detective Delancey,” she greeted him in her low voice.

“Call me Ryker,” he offered, as he had on each of the few occasions she’d spoken to him.

“I hope you enjoyed your dinner.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin.

She no more hoped he enjoyed his dinner than she hoped he’d come back tomorrow night, and the next and the next.

“I did,” he said politely. “My compliments to the chef.”

Her lips tightened. “You’ve been coming in later the past two weeks or so.” It sounded like an accusation.

“I’m flattered you noticed.”

“Don’t be.”

He smiled. “I’ve been working later. We’re shorthanded.”

A flicker of her eyelids told him she didn’t like that answer. Or believe it.

He wondered how she would react if he told her the whole truth. Yes, they were shorthanded, but the real reason he’d been dining later was so he could wait outside the restaurant until it closed, and watch her until she was safely inside her apartment three blocks away.

She was his only living connection to a killer he was convinced had committed three murders of young women in the past four years. Each killing had occurred during the fourth week in October, and the only reason the killer wasn’t four for four was because Nicole’s roommate had come home early and interrupted him.

But with all the evidence he had, he still couldn’t convince his chief that the murders were the work of one man. Deputy Chief Mike Davis needed more than just the coincidence of the dates.

“May I sit?” Nicole asked, gesturing to a chair.

He nodded. What was she up to? Judging by the tiny wrinkle between her brows, she was worried about something. He hoped it was her safety.

She sat on the edge of the chair and rested her clasped hands on the tabletop. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you here every night?”

“I’m not here every night.”

She glared at him. “Practically. You sometimes miss Thursdays, and we’re closed on Mondays, but the rest of the week …” She shrugged. “I mean, the food here isn’t exactly cheap. Or low-calorie.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Of course not. I—”

“You’re wondering how a St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office detective can afford to eat like this every day? “

Her cheeks turned red.

“I told you I’d keep an eye on you.”

“And I told you that wasn’t necessary.”

He glanced down at her entwined fingers. The knuckles were white. She spread her fingers, then squeezed them again.

He waited.

Finally she spoke, her voice muted. “I heard what you said that night, about the other women.”

Ryker cursed silently. He knew exactly what night she meant, and what conversation. She was referring to the night the killer had broken into her apartment. He hadn’t meant for anyone there to overhear his telephone conversation, certainly not her, the victim. He’d been trying to talk his chief into letting him combine the cases, now that he had a live victim. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. It had nothing to do with you.”

That was a lie. It had everything to do with her.

Her gaze told him she knew it. “I’m not stupid, Detective. You talked about combining murder cases. You said I was damned lucky to be alive. And you said my attack was the fourth in four years, all during the fourth week of October.” She paused and her eyes bored into his. “You think the man who broke into my apartment killed those other women.”

Ryker clenched his jaw. How was he supposed to answer her? He’d been given specific orders by Deputy Chief Mike Davis to drop his crusade to connect the murders.

“Obviously, next week will be the fourth week in October. If you’re right about him, that means he’ll kill again.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re here because you think he’ll come after me, aren’t you?”

Ryker opened his mouth, but immediately closed it and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t deny her words, but he didn’t want to confirm them, either. He wasn’t sure why the killer hadn’t tried again to kill Nicole. He’d like to think it was because the man didn’t know where she was, but that was highly unlikely. Her name had been in the paper and on television the day after the break-in.

Across from him, Nicole swallowed audibly. “Why hasn’t he come after me already?” she asked as if reading his mind.

Ryker’s own mouth went dry at her question. He shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s obsessive. The fact that he only kills once a year attests to that. For whatever reason, the last full week in October has some extremely important meaning for him.”

“This week,” she muttered. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Get out of town, preferably permanently, but at least for the next week or two.”

“I can’t do that.” Nicole bit her lower lip and looked down at her hands, then peered up at him, her green eyes hard as jade. “I bought double-locking dead bolts, even for the balcony doors. If you want to, you could check them. See if they’re strong enough. I could make you a cup of coffee.”

Ryker grimaced inwardly. There were very few things in the world he’d rather do than get to know Nicole Beckham better. He couldn’t deny the sexual attraction he’d felt for her ever since he’d first seen her a year ago, when he’d responded to the 911 call about the break-in.

Nicole Beckham was stunning in an understated way. Her hair was the color of old gold, and cut weirdly—shorter in back than in front. It suited her small, sharp features and heart-shaped face. If things were different, he’d accept her invitation in a heartbeat.

But things weren’t different. He was a detective with the major crimes division of the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, and she was the victim of a crime. There was no way they would ever have any other relationship than that.

As much as he wished he could say yes, he shook his head. He couldn’t go with her to her apartment for more than one reason. If the killer was watching her, he’d be tipped off that she had a bodyguard. Not to mention that the guy may have seen Ryker before, at other crime scenes. Serial killers were notorious for visiting crime scenes in the guise of an innocent onlooker. The killer might recognize him as a detective.

“Who installed your locks?”

“I called a locksmith from the phone book. He said they were the top-of-the-line residential locks.”

“Then I’m sure they are. Look. I know you don’t want me in your apartment. Just accept that I’ve decided this is the best restaurant in Mandeville, and you’re the best chef.”

Nicole pushed her chair back and stood. “Have you always eaten all your meals out?”

“Ninety percent anyway. I’m not much of a cook.”

“So where did you eat before you started coming here?”

Ryker smiled up at her. “The Lakeview Diner,” he said blandly, naming a fly-specked dive down near the lake.

Nicole bit her lip. It looked as if she was trying to keep from laughing. “Well then, thank you for choosing L’Orage, Detective Delancey.”

“Call me Ryker,” he said.

“Good night, Detective.”

RYKER SAT IN HIS PARKED CAR on the side of the road about three-fourths of a block east of the restaurant. He watched the time. As always, by ten minutes after eleven, Nicole appeared. Her golden-brown hair shone in the light from the streetlamps as she walked confidently along the sidewalk with a tote bag slung over her shoulder.

Ryker knew what was inside the bag. Her knives. Every decent chef had their own set. He also knew Nicole’s knife case was missing one knife. Her attacker had fled out the back door with it when her roommate came home early and interrupted him.

The idea of the killer having that super-sharp knife that was engraved with Nicole’s initials really bothered Ryker. The sheriff’s department had managed to keep her name out of the papers after the first mention. But even if by some miracle the killer didn’t already know her name, knowing she was a chef and having her initials on the knife gave him a clear advantage in finding her.

Ryker waited until she was half a block beyond his car before he started his engine. His BMW 3 Series sedan started quietly and purred almost inaudibly. He pulled forward at a snail’s pace, keeping her in his sight.

The short three blocks from the restaurant to her apartment building were well lit and open, an ideal neighborhood to walk to and from work. But Ryker would be much happier if she drove.

After her near miss last October, Nicole had quit her position as executive chef at the finest restaurant in Chef Voleur. She’d moved to Mandeville, several miles away, and taken this job.

Both Mandeville and Chef Voleur were in St. Tammany Parish, so her new job and her new apartment were still in his jurisdiction.

As Ryker watched her walk, and lectured himself about eyeing her shapely backside accentuated by the snug-fitting black jeans she wore, he noticed a movement in the shadows behind her.

A figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt staggered out of the shadows of a side street, less than a hundred feet behind Nicole. His head was down, his hands were in his pockets and he weaved slightly as he walked.

Ryker tensed. Nicole’s attacker had worn a dark hoodie and jeans. It was the only description Ryker had, because Nicole had seen nothing but a silhouette holding a knife. And her roommate, who’d surprised the attacker, had barely glimpsed his back as he’d fled through the kitchen door.

Pulling his Sig Sauer from his underarm holster, Ryker pressed the button to roll down the car window. The man had come from the direction of the restaurant. Had the woman who’d looked at Nicole and made a call been giving instructions to this punk?

Nicole’s shoulders stiffened visibly, she pulled her tote bag tighter against her body and she lifted her chin. She’d noticed the man.

The guy in the hoodie stumbled, and staggered forward a few steps, as if trying to regain his balance. His awkward dance could have been a misstep, or it could have been designed to get him twenty feet closer to Nicole.

Whatever his intent, that was twenty feet too close.

Ryker killed his engine and got out of the car, not closing the driver’s-side door. He moved silently and quickly across the street and crept up behind the hooded guy.

The guy lifted his head. Had he noticed Ryker? He didn’t turn around. But he did take his hands out of his pockets, clench his fists and push himself to a quicker pace.

“Hey, lady,” he rasped, reaching out with one hand. “Lady, stop.”

Nicole’s shoulders tensed under the short-sleeved green top she wore. Her head turned slightly, acknowledging the guy’s voice.

“Lady, I just need to—”

Ryker didn’t wait to find out what he needed to do. He grabbed the back of the hoodie and jerked the lightweight sideways and threw him up against a chain-link fence.

Nicole spun around with a small cry.

The guy whooped and hollered in a squeaky voice. Ryker stuck his gun barrel just behind the guy’s ear. “Shut up and freeze!” he ordered him.

The guy’s legs collapsed underneath him and suddenly Ryker’s hand on the back of his shirt was the only thing holding him up.

“Stand up! Get your hands up.” Ryker jerked the hood down and pushed the side of his face against the fence. In the lights from the streetlamps, Ryker saw that he was a kid—eighteen or nineteen at the most.

“I didn’t do nothing,” the kid whined. “You’re hurting me.”

“Not yet I’m not. Shut up or I will. Spread your feet.”

The kid obeyed, nearly falling down in his haste to do what Ryker told him to. Without looking at her, Ryker spoke to Nicole. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

He quickly patted the kid down and found a wadded-up dollar bill and a few coins, a pack of cigarettes with a book of matches stuck inside the cellophane and—no surprise—a pipe. Probably a crack pipe. He fished it out.

“Turn around.”

The kid obliged, his gaze darting around, as if assessing the likelihood of an escape.

“Don’t even think about it. Look at me,” Ryker yelled. “And get your hands up.”

The kid raised his arms, but he had trouble keeping them up. He was fidgety, his face was pale and clammy and his nose was running. He lowered one arm and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Ryker assessed the likelihood that he and the woman in the restaurant were in cahoots. By the contrast in their looks and dress, he doubted it, but he couldn’t afford to take a chance. The kid didn’t have a phone, but he could have ditched it.

“Who are you? Who sent you to follow her?”

“Who—? Nobody, man. Nobody sent me nowhere and I ain’t following nobody. I—” The kid giggled. “I don’t even know what street I’m on. I lost my car. I’m just trying to get home.”

The kid’s words were slurred and slow. Ryker peered at his face. His eyes never stopped moving. They were red-rimmed and teary. Sure enough, he’d been doing crack. He probably wasn’t lying when he said he had no idea where he was, much less where his car was. If he even had a car.

“Car? Where are your keys?”

“Oh, man.” The kid giggled again. “I musta lost ‘em.”

Ryker’s irritation ratcheted up a few notches. He got in the kid’s face. “Listen to me. If you don’t quit lying—” he doubled a fist “—I’ll fix it so you can’t talk at all. Got it?”

“Y-yes sir,” the kid stammered.

“What’s your name?”

“Duane.”

“What were you going to do, Duane? Rob her?”

“No, no man. I just wanted a couple bucks. You know, to catch the bus home.”

“Okay, Duane. Where’s your ID?”

Duane lowered his arms and pulled up his pants. “I left it at home,” he whined.

Ryker decided to believe him. For an instant he considered letting the scared kid go with a warning. But he decided he’d better do what he was supposed to do. He used his cell phone to call Central Dispatch and request a couple of Mandeville patrolmen to run the kid in and check for priors.

“Wait right here under this streetlight,” he told Nicole, then grabbed the kid by an arm and marched him over to his car. He pushed him against the car’s frame.

“Spread your feet,” he commanded.

“Aw, man. I ain’t never been arrested. Gimme a break.”

“Spread ‘em. You lost your chance at a break when you accosted the woman.” He pushed the kid’s head down against the back window. “Stay there.”

Reaching through the open driver’s-side door, he retrieved a flexible strap cuff and quickly secured the kid’s hands behind him. By the time he finished, a car marked St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office pulled up and two uniformed deputies got out.

“Detective Ryker Delancey,” he said. “Got one for you.”

“Sweet,” the younger deputy said, while the older one groaned.

“Another hour and we’d be off duty. Now we got paperwork.”

“Sorry,” Ryker said, grinning. “He’s all yours.”

They marched the kid to the cruiser, settled him in the backseat and then drove away.

Ryker holstered his gun, locked his car and returned to Nicole’s side, ready to console and reassure her.

She glared at him. “You were following me?”

Ryker stared at her. “That’s what you got out of all this? Did you even notice that little jerk behind you? “

“Of course I did. But I’m less than fifty feet from my building.”

“Fifty feet?” Ryker laughed. “Might as well be fifty miles, if your throat is cut.”

Nicole’s head jerked slightly, probably at the image his words conjured.

“No.” She recovered and cut a hand through the air. “You’re just trying to distract me. You were following me. Have you done this for the whole past year?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have been keeping an eye on you, but no. I haven’t been following you home until recently.”

Her eyes widened. “Because it’s the last week in October.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “You do think that man is going to come back, don’t you?”

“Let’s say I’m afraid he will. I wasn’t supposed to talk about the previous cases, because I can’t convince my chief that they’re all related.”

“Your chief doesn’t think they’re related?” Nicole’s voice rose in hope. “Why do you?”

He pushed his fingers through his short hair, leaving it spiked. “Because of the dates of the attacks. Because of a connection among the victims that hasn’t been released to the public.”

“A connection? What connection?”

Ryker studied her. Would it hurt for her to know the reason he was so sure the same man had committed all the murders and tried to kill her? Hopefully it would convince her of the danger she could be in. He believed that forewarned is forearmed.

“Birthdays,” he said. “All of your birthdays are within about a week of each other. The dates range from the twenty-first of October to the first of November. Mike isn’t convinced the birthdays are important. He’s relying on the MOs, which are all different.”

“MOs. That’s—”

“Modus operandi. Or method of operation. Basically, things that are unique to the killer. What weapon or weapons he uses, similarities in how he gains entrance, who he targets. That kind of thing.” Ryker sighed. “He’s got a point. Normally serial killers don’t change their methods.”

A dark car sped by close to them. Nicole jumped and stepped closer to Ryker. He put his hand on the small of her back. “Are you okay? “

She nodded. “Just a little jumpy.” She looked up at him, and her demeanor changed. “I apologize. I know you’re trying to protect me.”

Ryker stared at her. Suddenly, the hostility that had honed every word she’d said was gone. In its place was a husky softness that slid through him straight to his groin. Surely she wasn’t doing that on purpose.

As if to prove that she wasn’t, she stepped back, putting space between them. “I could make you that cup of coffee,” she said hesitantly.

Ryker swallowed. He’d be a fool to accept her invitation, the way he was feeling right now. His pulse had sped up, and in just a few seconds, if he didn’t get himself under control, he might embarrass himself and her. The best thing to do would be to decline again, and head for his car and get the hell out of there.

“I’d better get going,” he said. “I just wanted to be sure you got home safely.”

“Oh, of course. I need to go, too.” She gestured vaguely behind her, in the direction of her apartment.

“I’ll walk you to your door.”

Glancing back at him, she shook her head. “Please don’t. I walk to and from work every day. I don’t want to be one of those women who’s afraid of going anywhere.”

“Yeah? Well, for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure you’ll never be one of those women. But do me a favor and take your car to work for the next couple of weeks.”

“Good night,” she called as she walked away.

Ryker stood and watched her until she got to her building and walked up the stairs to the second-floor landing. She looked down at him as she unlocked her door, then she stepped inside and closed it behind her. He waited until he saw lights go on behind her curtains.

“Damn it, Nicole,” he whispered as he got into his car and cranked it. She was no more going to drive to the restaurant than there was a man in the moon. Another light came on in her apartment. Her bedroom, probably.

The thought of her getting undressed, bathing, slipping between the sheets, stirred him again. He gritted his teeth and pulled away from the curb. “Down, boy,” he muttered. “No getting the hots for the pretty victim. That’s stepping over the line.”

Chapter Two

Albert Moser entered his house through the garage and headed straight for the photo album. He knew the man who’d come to Nicole Beckham’s rescue tonight. He’d seen him somewhere, he was sure.

The encroaching date on the calendar had sent him out looking for Nicole Beckham. He was ninety-nine percent sure she hadn’t seen his face a year ago. Still, she was unfinished business.

He knew where she worked, so he’d waited outside the restaurant until it closed and she emerged. He was delighted when he saw that she was walking home. He’d figured it would be easy to follow her and force his way into her apartment as she unlocked the door.

But then a small drama had unfolded, and Albert realized Nicole Beckham had a protector. And not just any protector—a cop. He’d grabbed the kid who’d been walking behind Nicole, cuffed him and called a couple of his buddies to take the kid in. Meanwhile, Albert was able to get a good look at his face.

He’d seen him before.

He sat down with the photo album and thumbed through all the newspaper clippings he’d saved from the murders. He’d seen that cop before. It could have been several years ago, during the brief time the police were investigating his daughter’s murder. Or maybe his picture had been in the newspaper.

It didn’t matter where he’d seen him. What mattered was, he was a cop and he was watching out for Nicole. Did that mean the police were finally taking the murder of young women seriously?

If so, then Albert had to be doubly vigilant, and doubly careful. He sorted through the six insurance forms, looking at the birth dates. He narrowed his choice down to two, both of whom had been born on the twenty-fifth day of October, three days after his daughter.

THE NEXT MORNING, Deputy Chief Mike Davis of the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office satellite office in Chef Voleur leaned back in his desk chair and frowned at Ryker. “I just got off the phone with Lieutenant James Faraday in Mandeville.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t give me ‘yes, sir.’ Tell me what you were doing arresting a kid in Mandeville at midnight last night. And don’t tell me this has anything to do with your serial killer obsession.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do both, sir.”

Mike scowled. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I was off duty. I observed a kid accosting—someone. He was acting drunk or high. I dispatched a couple of locals to run him in.”

Mike Davis sighed and sat up straight. “And the someone? That wouldn’t be that young woman whom you’ve been stalking, would it?”

Ryker studied the toes of his shoes. “The victim of last year’s foiled attack. Yes, sir.”

“Didn’t I refuse your request to provide protection for her?” Mike’s voice rose in volume.

“As I said, I was off duty,” Ryker said mildly. Mike couldn’t tell him what to do on his own time, but Ryker didn’t like bucking authority. He believed in going by the book. He also believed Nicole’s life was in danger.

And that belief took priority over any other.

“You’re going to give me apoplexy, Detective Delancey.”

Ryker wasn’t sure what apoplexy was, but he’d already noticed Mike’s red ears, a sure sign of an impending explosion. Now the redness was creeping down his neck and up his cheeks.

“Sir, I know that the man who broke into Nicole Beckham’s apartment last year is the same man who killed those other women. I know it.”

Mike sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve already told you, my hands are tied. If I combine the cases and make it official that we believe the deaths are the work of one man, I’ll have to appoint a task force, and involve the district attorney’s office. The media will be all over us.”

“Women are dying.”

“Not to mention that we’re shorthanded already. I need more evidence—a lot more.”

“Damn it, Mike. How much more evidence will it take? For four years he’s struck during the same week in October. It’s always a nighttime home invasion, always when the women are alone. And they were all born in October.”

“I thought one of them was born on November 1.”

Ryker gritted his teeth. “One day.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but there’s not enough consistency. You can’t connect the women. You’ve got different weapons, different dates.” Mike stood. “And it doesn’t help your case that you have a history with one of the victims.”

“It was a few dates back in college. I hadn’t seen her in—”

Mike held up a hand. “Spare me. I’ve heard it before. Now I’ve got a meeting. This discussion is over.”

“Fine.” Ryker blew out a frustrated breath. “Within the week, he’ll strike again, and I’ll get you your evidence. It’s a shame that another woman has to die to convince you.”

“Get out of here, before I fire your ass.”

Ryker beat a hasty retreat. Mike couldn’t fire him. Not without cause. But he understood his deputy chief’s frustration.

Even so, there was no way he was going to leave Nicole unprotected. It was October 21. Within the next few days, he fully expected the killer to strike again. There was no way he could stop him. But he’d be damned if the victim was Nicole.

THAT NIGHT AS NICOLE EXITED the restaurant, Ryker fell into step beside her.

She jumped and pressed her hand to her chest.

“I see you paid no attention to me,” he remarked. “I told you to drive.”

“I see you’re still following me.”

“Somebody has to look out for you if you aren’t going to take care of yourself.”

She sped up. He was surprised her heels didn’t strike sparks off the sidewalk. “I do not intend to act like a victim,” she threw back over her shoulder.

Ryker easily caught up to her. “Taking reasonable precautions is not acting like a victim.”

“I take reasonable precautions.”

“Walking alone at midnight is not a reasonable precaution.”

Nicole stopped at the stairwell that led up to the second-floor landing of her apartment building. “Look, Detective. After the break-in, I was so spooked that I gave up my job and my apartment. I will never feel that way again.”

He saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I understand. Is that offer for a cup of coffee still open? I’d like to tell you about this killer.”

Her eyes widened and shimmered. “Why? To terrify me?”

He shook his head. “No. To prepare you, in case he comes back to finish what he started.”

She shuddered. “In other words, to terrify me.”

He knew his words were harsh, but at this point, with only a few days’ window for the next attack, he’d do anything to get her attention. “If you insist on looking at it that way. But the more you know, the better prepared you’ll be.”

She swallowed and pressed her lips together as she studied his face. “Fine. Please,” she said wryly. “By all means, come in and have a cup of coffee and tell me about the killer who’s after me.”

She turned and climbed the stairs. Ryker followed her, taking the opportunity to admire her backside in the jeans she wore. She was trim, but with curves in the right places. He liked that. He didn’t like stick-thin women who looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

He gave his head a shake. This wasn’t about admiring her figure or considering how her firm curves would feel under his hands.

By the time she got to the top of the stairs she was digging in her purse. Ryker heard keys jangle. He grimaced. He’d have thought every woman everywhere knew to have keys out and ready. It could be dangerous to be fumbling for keys outside in the dark.

Nicole felt Ryker’s disapproving gaze on her as she unlocked her apartment door.

“I usually have my keys out before I get up here.” She winced at her tone. She sounded like a wimp. She had no need to make explanations to him. In any case, it was his fault she hadn’t pulled out her keys earlier. When he’d stepped up beside her out of the shadows he’d given her a scare.

“Maybe you could look at my locks while you’re here,” she said as she walked through the door ahead of him.

He paused for a second and glanced around the landing, then stepped inside and gave the locks a brief inspection before closing the door. “They look good,” he said. “Nice apartment.”

“Not as nice as the one I gave up in Chef Voleur,” she said, an accusatory note in her voice as she stepped behind the butcher-block island into the kitchen area.

She swallowed nervously. Ryker Delancey made her small apartment feel tiny. He wasn’t a real big man. He was six feet tall, but lean. He probably only weighed about one-ninety, but he filled up her living room—and her senses.

He sat on one of the bar stools at the island. “You didn’t grow up in Chef Voleur.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“No. I moved there when I got the job at the restaurant.”

“Where did you grow up?”

Nicole winced internally. In an apartment half this size with a mother who wasn’t there even when she was there.

“Baton Rouge,” she said noncommittally. “Do you really want coffee, or would you rather have something else?” She opened the refrigerator. “I have—water. There might be some bourbon—”

Ryker laughed. “Coffee’s fine with me.”

“Do you mind if I make it decaf?”

He shook his head.

She grabbed the decaffeinated beans from the cabinet and put them in the grinder. By the time they were ground, she realized he was standing beside her. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

His voice rumbled near her ear, disturbing and enticing. She took a fraction of a step away from his imposing presence.

“Just appear, like you did on the sidewalk. You don’t make any noise.”

“Nobody moves without making any noise. You’re not paying attention. Being unaware of your surroundings could get you killed.”

“Do you think you could lay off the scare tactics for a minute or two?”

“You have a real espresso machine. That’s impressive.”

Nicole laughed. “Okay. Nice segue. Yes. I do have a real espresso machine. I like coffee, probably a little too much.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve always wanted one. Show me how to use it.”

Together, they made two mugs of decaf cappuccino, and Nicole put sugar in hers. She leaned against the kitchen counter and sipped her coffee. Ryker leaned next to her.

Nicole felt the subtle brush of his sleeve against her bare arm, and realized that this was the first time a man had been in her apartment—other than the moving crew and the locksmith. Thinking of that, it occurred to her that she hadn’t been out on a single date in the year since the break-in.

Why was she even thinking about dating? Her gaze lit on Ryker’s hands holding her jazz festival mug. They were large and square, with long fingers. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and his tanned forearms were dusted with golden hair, lighter than the light brown hair on his head.

He was attractive. Very attractive.

And strong, in the way that basketball players and soccer players were. Lean and wiry. She liked lean and wiry. Maybe that was why she was suddenly thinking about dating.

Okay, stop. He was in her apartment because she’d been the victim of a home invasion, and he, the investigator on the case, thought her life was in danger. That was a far cry from dating.

She shivered.

He glanced at her sidelong. “You okay?” he asked.

“Not really. Do you think that boy last night was following me? “

Ryker put his mug down and turned toward her. “No. I think he was high as a kite and lost, like he said he was. But it ought to illustrate to you what could happen. Someone could easily follow you. In the few minutes it takes you to walk from the restaurant to here, you could be grabbed.”

“There you go again with the scare tactics. You can’t manipulate me by scaring me. I will not quit this job. I already had to give up one job because of this person. I will not lose this one, too.”

“I hope you won’t. He hasn’t come after you, and it’s been almost a year. Maybe he won’t. Maybe I’m wrong, and your attack had nothing to do with the others.”

“But you don’t believe that, do you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have eaten at L’Orage every night for almost a year.”

Nicole looked up into his blue eyes, searching for a denial of what she’d just said. But as surely as he was standing there in front of her, she knew he was right.

“You believe before this week is out, he’s coming to get me, don’t you?”

Nicole’s green eyes filled with tears, then wavered and dropped to the cup she held.

Ryker took the cup and set it aside, then took her hands in his. “Listen to me, okay? Just listen to me. I’m going to make sure that nothing—nothing—happens to you.”

Her fingers squeezed his. “Okay,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “I believe you.” Then she blinked, and a fat tear spilled over onto her lower lashes and hung there, sparkling in the light.

That tear almost undid Ryker. He was a sucker for tears. So much so that he’d had to teach himself to remain detached when he questioned victims or interrogated suspects. He couldn’t afford to get his emotions entangled in his job. He’d seen the devastating effects of emotion up close, and he wasn’t about to become a slave to his feelings like his father had.

Before he’d even finished his internal lecture, he’d defied it by reaching out and catching the teardrop with his thumb. When he did, her eyes closed. He laid his palm against her cheek.

He’d kept an eye on her for a year, ever since the break-in. She was his only living connection to his serial killer. He’d seen her leave her job and move. Watched over her as she searched for a new job in Mandeville and finally took the executive chef position at L’Orage.

He was intimately familiar with her honey-colored hair and skin, her sharp, beautiful green eyes, her graceful yet determined walk and the sweet smile she shared with everyone around her. When had he become so fascinated with her?

As soon as the question arose in his mind, he dismissed it. He wasn’t. Well, except as a victim of the killer he was trying to catch. She was his connection to his killer. That was all.

At that moment, Nicole’s eyes opened. Tears had matted her lashes until they looked like dark starbursts around her green eyes. Before he could work up the willpower to stop himself, he bent his head, urged her chin up with his fingers and kissed her.

She kissed him back. She tasted like coffee and cream. Hot, sweet, intense. A fire erupted inside him. The fire of lust—raging, consuming. He was instantly hard and burning for release.

Then the fire enveloped her, and her response was as hungry and frenzied as his own.

He backed her against the counter and kissed her deeply and thoroughly. She gave as good as she got, doubling her fists in the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer, taking his openmouthed kisses and returning them fully. He pressed the full length of his body against her, revealing how turned on he was.

She uttered a small cry and pushed at his chest. Somewhere in his brain, he felt relief. At least one of them had some self-control.

“What is that?” she panted, squirming.

He stared, incredulous. “Are you kidding me?” he muttered.

She shook her head. “Not that.” She touched the leather strap around his midsection. “This.”

Oh. His gun. She was talking about his gun. He had on his shoulder holster and she’d felt hard metal pressing against her. He stepped backward. “Sorry.”

“Just take it off.” Her green eyes were stormy, yet amazingly, still filled with passion.

He took off his jacket and then unbuckled the holster and shrugged out of it. By the time he was done, his lust had waned slightly. He breathed deeply. “Maybe I should go.”

Nicole didn’t say anything. He looked up at her, his holster dangling from one hand.

Her tongue slid out to moisten her lips and she shook her head no.

His hand tightened on the leather strap. He could stop right now. He could put the holster back on, and the jacket, and walk right out the door.

But he didn’t. Against his better judgment, he let the holster drop to the floor. Then he reached for her. Before he could take her in his arms, though, she grasped his hand and pulled him toward her bedroom. At the bedroom door, he stopped and turned her around to face him. “Are you sure?” he panted.

She pulled his head down and kissed him intimately. “If I want to, or if it’s a good idea?” she asked.

“Good idea.”

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither.” He pulled her close and kissed her again as she maneuvered them closer to the bed. When the backs of his calves hit the mattress, he tumbled, taking her with him. They ended up laughing in a tangle of clothes and sheets and throw pillows.

Nicole tugged a bright orange pillow out from under his shoulders, and a turquoise one that was tangled in her legs. Ryker chuckled as he tossed the rest of them onto the floor.

“What are those things for anyhow?” he asked, between kisses.

“Throw pillows?” she answered. “To throw, I guess.” She leaned over the side of the bed, reaching for one. “I’ll show you.”

Ryker caught her waist and pulled her back. He turned her around to face him and slid her green top up and over her head. She wore a pink bra—not sexy at all. Utilitarian. It did have a front clasp though, so he disposed of it quickly. He decided that her full, round breasts were the most beautiful he’d ever seen. They were lush, firm, creamy-smooth. His mouth watered to taste them, but he restrained himself.

Once he got started, he didn’t want to be hindered by clothes, so he quickly undid the top button of his shirt and tugged it off over his head, then shed his khaki pants.

By the time he was out of his clothes, Nicole had stripped down to her pink panties. Now they were sexy.

He didn’t remove them. Not yet. Instead, he slid his hands along her firm, soft skin. He caressed her breasts, trailing his fingers across their tips and watching them tighten in response. He traced the curve of her waist and the swell of that enticing backside. Just as he’d thought, it was as firm and silky smooth as the rest of her. Then he hooked his fingers around the bikini panties and pulled them off and tossed them aside. He dipped into her, sliding, touching, coaxing her body into response.

“There are condoms in that drawer,” Nicole whispered raggedly.

The box of condoms was sealed, and he couldn’t help wondering how long she’d had it as he tore the cardboard top and retrieved one. He fumbled like a teenager, but finally got it on. In the midst of it, as his cheeks warmed in embarrassment and he thought about stopping while he still had one rational brain cell in his head, Nicole wrapped her hand around him, and that one last coherent thought scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind.

He kissed her again, and retraced the path of his fingers with his tongue. He kissed the petal-smooth skin of her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. Then he traced the little tunnel between her breasts. He cupped them again, lavishing more attention on their tips. Once they stood erect, he tasted each one in turn, then grazed them with his teeth. To his delight, she arched her back and moaned with pleasure.

Her skin tasted fresh and sweet, like a crisp, cool melon. His mouth watered as he traced the indentation below her breastbone and slid his hand down to palm her flat belly.

She sat up and pulled him back to kiss his mouth again, while her hand cupped him and caressed him until his erection pulsed against her palm. Then she guided him. He groaned with the effort of controlling himself as he slid into her.

Nicole was riding a wave of hot delicious pleasure like nothing she’d ever felt before. Her few experiences had let her know she enjoyed sex, but this, with Ryker, was something far beyond mere enjoyment.

Her entire body vibrated with almost unbearable desire, building from her sexual core like a volcano about to erupt. And when he sank deeply into her, filling her, the shock of her instantaneous climax caused her to cry out.

He immediately stopped. “Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly, his forehead pressed against hers. His erection throbbed inside her, as her own body pulsed in tiny aftershocks.

“Yes,” she breathed, and arched upward to take him in more fully. “Don’t stop.”

With a low growl, he began thrusting rhythmically, stirring her already satiated desire to new life. Each thrust took them higher and higher still, until he rose up on his arms and drove her to a new, dizzying pinnacle.

Both of them cried out as they came together. Then Ryker kissed her gently on the lips, floated a fleeting kiss to each eyelid, then pressed his face into the sweet spot between her shoulder and neck. His harsh breaths slowly returned to normal.

Nicole felt as if she had melted into the mattress. Her limbs might as well have been boneless, and her body still trembled in an occasional tiny contraction.

But the most amazing thing was that she felt as if she could drift off to sleep. Ryker lay beside her and pulled her into the crook of his arm. He kissed her temple and murmured, “Are you okay? “

She nodded. “Better than okay.”

“Good.” Then, within a few seconds, his breathing slowed and evened out.

“Are you?” she whispered, but he didn’t answer. Did he feel as safe and comfortable as she did? Or was he one of those self-absorbed guys who fell asleep as soon as they were done?

No, he wasn’t one of those guys. He’d been too attentive, too considerate. And he’d definitely thought of her pleasure. Her very, very nice pleasure.

Her … pleasurable … pleasure …

Drowsily, she realized her thoughts were drifting. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her head with his clean, soapy scent, and her mind with his promise.

I’m going to make sure that nothing—nothing—happens to you.

Chapter Three

Ryker emerged into consciousness, leaving behind a sexy dream involving NicoleBeckham. The subtle scent of melon and an afterthought of coffee tickled his nostrils. He shifted, and realized he was lying on his back, sprawled diagonally across a double bed. His eyes opened to a slit, and he saw that faint light was seeping in from behind a set of pale green curtains.

Was he still dreaming? He took another breath and his mouth watered at the scent of melon and coffee. Memories of the night before stirred his desire. Nope. This was definitely not a memory. It was reality.

He frowned and squinted. Surprisingly, he’d slept through the night, something he rarely did—never if there was a woman in bed with him. He tried to lift his arm to check his watch, and found that he couldn’t. His arm was weighted down by Nicole’s shoulder. Her honey-smooth, naked, rounded shoulder.

Then he noticed that more of her was draped across him. She was on her stomach and her face was buried in her pillow. He raised his head and admired the sexy curve of her buttocks half-hidden by a sheet. He looked further. Her legs were sprawled across his calf.

Without allowing himself too much time to think about why he was so reluctant to move, when usually he couldn’t wait to get home after a date, he slid his leg out from under hers, turned over and pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, then slipped his arm out from beneath her.

She lifted her head and gazed at him through heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes. Then her gaze went to the window behind him. “It’s daylight,” she said, sounding surprised.

“We slept all night,” he responded, smiling at her. “How are you doing this morning?”

She sat up, pulling the rumpled sheet with her and pushed her tousled hair back from her face. “I’m fine,” she said on a yawn, then smiled sheepishly. “I don’t usually sleep all night, especially—”

“With someone else in the bed?” he finished. “Me neither.”

She looked at him thoughtfully.

“What?” he asked, sitting up beside her and making sure the sheet covered him.

She blinked. “Nothing. Are you hungry?”

“Starving. What’ve you got?”

“Not much. I rarely eat at home.”

Ryker grinned. “Come on. Surely you have eggs.”

“I think so.”

“And we know you have coffee. So you stay here, and I’ll make breakfast. When I’m done, you can make the coffee in that fancy espresso machine of yours.”

“I thought you said you didn’t cook.”

“I said I didn’t cook much.” He put a finger against her mouth. “Just say thank you. You’ve cooked for me practically every night for almost a year. Let me return the favor.”

“Thank you,” she said against his finger. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss, then sat up and grabbed his briefs and jeans and headed for the bathroom.

Once Ryker had gone into the kitchen, Nicole put her hands over her mouth and squealed silently.

What had she done? In the year since the break-in, she hadn’t had one date. Not one. She hadn’t even thought about dating. Certainly hadn’t missed it. She’d been too busy making a reputation for herself as a chef all over again at a new restaurant.

Now, suddenly, she’d fallen into bed with a man—a cop—whose only interest in her was that she’d managed to survive his faceless killer.

What was the matter with her? In the first place, she never did that. Never.

Certainly not with a stranger.

Leaning back against the headboard and pulling the sheet up over her, Nicole indulged in a bit of morning-after basking. Last night she’d slept better than she had in over a year. Maybe in forever. Her mother’s job as a night cleaning woman in Baton Rouge hadn’t contributed to sleeping well. Her hours had been from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. while she left her young daughter alone on the couch that they made into a bed in their room in a run-down rooming house.

Was it bizarre that the man who was trying to convince her that her life was in danger was the same man who made her feel safer than she’d ever felt before in her life?

Most definitely.

Nicole heard pans rattling in the kitchen. She couldn’t imagine what Ryker was cooking up out of her sparsely stocked refrigerator. She hoped the eggs weren’t too old. She couldn’t remember when she’d bought them.

Jumping up, she ran to the bathroom and washed and brushed her teeth, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that read Kiss the Chef. Just as she was running a comb through her hair, she heard Ryker.

“Come on and make the coffee,” he called.

“Whatever you found to cook, it smells wonderful,” she said as she came into the kitchen and headed for the espresso machine. By the time she had the mugs filled, the plates were on the table. “I assume the eggs were okay?”

“I floated them in water. They sank.” He leaned forward and kissed her, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.

“What?” she asked as her heart gave a little leap. He was even more handsome this morning. His hair, damp from his shower, looked darker, which somehow made his eyes look bluer.

“Just following instructions,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her nose, then looking down at the front of her T-shirt. He gently traced the letters.

“Oh, that.” She shivered and her cheeks flamed as his fingertips slid across her breasts. She set a mug down near his plate, then sat. “I never really thought about what it says. What kind of eggs are these?”

“My special scrambled eggs. The only bread I found was green, and I didn’t think green toast and eggs sounded good, so eggs is all you get.”

“That’s fine.” She picked up a fork and tasted the dish. The eggs were fluffy and creamy, with a hint of something savory. “They’re amazing,” she remarked.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he said with a laugh. “Although I have to admit, this is pretty much the extent of my cooking skills. Well, this and sausage gumbo.”

“You can make gumbo? That’s quite a talent.”

“My mother taught me how to make a perfect roux, and as anyone in Louisiana knows—”

“You can’t have a good gumbo without a good roux,” Nicole finished, smiling. “What’s in here that makes them so creamy? I know there’s no cream in the refrigerator.”

Ryker shook his head as he shoveled forkfuls of eggs down and chased them with coffee. “Mayonnaise.”

“Mayonnaise.” She’d never thought about mixing mayonnaise and eggs, although they obviously complemented each other perfectly. “And the savory flavor?”

“Onions. I had to use dried minced onions. You really don’t keep much food around, for a chef.”

Nicole’s mouth was full, so she had to swallow and drink some coffee before she could answer. “I told you. It’s a lot of trouble to cook for one person,” she said, wiping her mouth on a sheet of paper towel Ryker had folded for a napkin.

“Tell me about it.”

“But I am totally stealing your scrambled egg recipe,” she teased.

“No, you’re not. That’s my copyrighted recipe. Not unless you call it Eggs Delancey.”

“How about Ryker’s Amazing Morning-After Breakfast?” she teased.

“That’s a mouthful.”

She picked up her plate and stood at the very instant he did the same thing. They nearly collided.

Ryker slid his plate under hers and took them both. “I’ve got the dishes.” He leaned over and kissed her again. As before, it started as a tease, a little peck on the lips, but she leaned forward, too, and the simple little kiss turned into much more.

Ryker put his hand holding the mug around her and pulled her closer, until the plates in his other hand were pressing into her breastbone. Coffee and salt mingled with bits of egg as their kiss deepened.

Nicole felt the fire starting deep inside her. She made a little involuntary sound in her throat.

Ryker pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Think the dishes could wait?” he whispered.

“I definitely think they could—” A harsh jangle interrupted her.

“Damn,” he said. “That’s my phone.” He retrieved his jacket from the floor beside the front door.

It was William Crenshaw, a friend and fellow detective. “What’s up, Bill?”

“We got another one.”

“Another what?” Ryker glanced at Nicole. She was rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He turned his back to her.

Bill sucked in a deep breath. “Another girl. Dead in her apartment.”

Ryker’s whole body went on alert. Everybody on the force knew about his certainty that St. Tammany Parish had a serial killer. Three young women had been killed in three years, all inside their homes, and all with weapons of convenience.

“When?” he barked.

“The Courtyard Apartments on Main Street in Chef Voleur. Neighbors saw her lying on her patio this morning. Looks like she collapsed while trying to escape.”

“Damn it. Today’s the—” he held the phone away from his ear and glanced at the date “—twenty-second. Okay. I’ll be right there.” Ryker hung up and turned to find Nicole looking at him. The running water was off. How much had she heard? He didn’t want her to know that another woman had been killed.

“You have to go?” she asked.

He nodded. “Got a situation.” He ran a hand across his damp hair.

“Is it bad?”

“It might be.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know how you do what you do. Chasing the bad guys. Putting yourself in danger, day after day.”

He shrugged, suddenly wanting to be out of there, and not just because he had a new murder to investigate.

Nicole was going to keep on asking questions, and eventually, she’d get around to questions he didn’t want to answer. Questions she really didn’t want to know the answers to.

He tucked in his shirt, donned his shoulder holster and fastened it, and shook out his jacket. “I’ll see you later,” he said, glancing around to make sure he hadn’t left anything.

Nicole started toward him, but he grabbed the front doorknob.

“I’ll call you,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he headed out, closing the door behind him. As he vaulted down the stairs, he winced at his words. He’d meant them, but the offhand phrase had become a cliché for one-night stands. All he could do was hope that Nicole had sense enough to know that when he was called, he had to go.

He got in his car and took off, his mind already turning to the crime scene he was speeding toward.

October 22. The killer was right on time.

NICOLE TWISTED THE KITCHEN TOWEL in her hands as she stared at her front door. The best night of her life had suddenly turned sour.

Of course she understood that Ryker was a detective. Emergency phone calls and life-or-death situations were part of his job description. The fact that he’d rushed out so quickly wasn’t the problem.

His hastily thrown out I’ll call you wasn’t the problem, either. Although it did occur to her that he hadn’t asked for her phone number. A small pang of regret stabbed her in the chest. I would be a shame if he didn’t call.

But the bigger problem was, he’d lied to her about the call. Or at least he hadn’t told her the whole truth. She’d heard him say the date. Seen the look on his face as he listened to the caller. It didn’t take a genius, or even a detective, to figure out what that phone call was really about.

Nicole shivered. Ryker thought that the man who’d broken into her home, who’d taken one of her chef knives, who had already killed three women, had struck again.

RYKER SAT ON HIS HAUNCHES and studied the victim’s position. She was sprawled across the concrete floor of the patio, the back of her nightgown and the concrete floor around her drenched in blood. Ryker followed the trail of blood with his eyes, back to the patio door. He’d check with CSI about the blood patterns later, but from what he could tell, she’d been stabbed in the back just about the time she’d reached the patio door. She’d made it outside before she collapsed.

Drip patterns down her sides and the blood around her body told him she hadn’t died right away. She’d bled out right here where she’d fallen.

He took a quick look around the patio. It was the neighbors on the west side who’d called 911. The apartment to the east had a privacy fence. Bill had already questioned the couple that lived there. Apparently, neither one had heard anything.

He bent down, trying to get a good look at the victim’s face. She was older than his previous victims. He wasn’t a good judge of age, but he figured she was in her late thirties at best. A frisson of doubt slithered through him. If this was the work of his serial killer, the man had stepped outside the normal actions expected of serial murderers—again. This victim’s age was an anomaly. Ryker rubbed the spot in the middle of his chest where the frisson of doubt had lodged.

What if this killing wasn’t connected?

Ryker studied the knife wound just inside her left shoulder blade. He lifted his arm and mimicked the motion that would have been necessary to make that wound. The killer had wielded the knife above his head. He wasn’t proficient with a knife as a weapon. A pro would more likely have kept his arm low, and stabbed her in the lower back—the kidneys.

Nope. He was certain his guy had used a weapon of convenience—again. If it was his guy.

Ryker sent a quick glance around the small patio. The weapon. Where was it? Every other time, the killer had left the weapon at the scene. Except for last year, when he’d escaped with Nicole’s knife.

Ryker studied the body again. It was conceivable that the weapon could be under her, but not likely. Not given the bleeding pattern. If she had fallen while running away from the killer who had just stabbed her, the knife couldn’t have ended up beneath her.

He touched the cut nightgown with a gloved finger. He couldn’t tell much about the knife wound because of the blood. But the cut in the gown was only about an inch long. It wasn’t a very big knife. The blade that made that cut in the nightgown had to be less than an inch wide.

An ominous thought occurred to him. The knife that had been stolen from Nicole wasn’t a big knife. He’d looked at her knife case the night of her near attack, but all he could remember was that the empty slot where the missing knife should have been stored wasn’t very long. He remembered looking at her knife case and feeling thankful that the man hadn’t taken one of the ominously long, thick-bladed ones.

Dr. David Miller, the new medical examiner who’d taken over when Hiram Crouch had retired the previous December, stepped through the door. “Ryker. Got another one?”

Ryker rose from his crouch. “Looks like it. How’s business?”

“It’s been slow. I reckon it’s picking up now.”

“I’ll leave her with you. I want to look around inside and check with Bill about what the neighbors said.”

Dave crouched down beside the victim. “Hey, sweetie,” he said. “Let’s see what you can tell me.”

“I need everything you can give me about the knife he used. We haven’t found it yet. I’ve got a feeling he took it with him.”

Dave nodded without looking up.

Ryker headed for the patio door, then turned back. “Dave? How old do you think she is?”

The medical examiner turned her head so he could see her face and neck. “Late thirties or early forties.”

Ryker nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He stepped through the door into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the blood spatter on the tile and the crime scene photographer who was taking photos of every inch of wall and floor.

“Don’t suppose you’ve found a weapon yet,” he said to Bill, who was writing something on a small pad.

Bill shook his head, and finished scribbling before he looked up. “Nope. Nothing.”

“That’s odd.”

“Only if the killer is your guy.”

Ryker gave a reluctant nod. “Anything missing from the kitchen?”

Bill shook his head, then pointed at a worn brown couch with his pen. “It looks like Ms. Terry was watching TV. May have fallen asleep on the couch. The killer probably saw her through the open window there.”

Ryker glanced at the window, then at the door facing, where wood was splintered. “And nobody heard him kick the door in?”

“Apparently not. Although, look at that lock. My nine-year-old nephew could break in here.”

Ryker glanced around. The crime scene photographer was standing in the doorway to the patio and a second crime scene investigator was lifting fingerprints from the front door. “Bill,” he said, leaning close to Bill’s ear, “what if he used the knife he stole from Nicole?”

“Hello, boys,” an obnoxiously cheery voice said.

Ryker whirled. It was Lon Hébert, a reporter for the local newspaper, the St. Tammany Parish Record. He cursed under his breath.

Bill wasn’t so circumspect. “What the hell are you doing here, Hébert? This is a crime scene. Take your ugly, scrawny ass out of here. Tom—” he called to one of the uniformed deputies.

“Aw, Bill. Give me a break. I need a big story. It’s been so quiet around here that I was about to run a piece on alligators being run over on the freeway.” Hébert laughed. “Delancey, talk to me.”

“How do you even know about this?” Bill demanded.

Hébert grinned. “It’s called a police scanner, Bill.”

“Get out of here,” Ryker said, his voice deadly quiet. “And make sure you clear anything—and I mean anything—with the sheriff’s office before you print it.”

Lon held up his hands. “Fine. Fine. I’ll call the deputy chief and see if I can get a statement.” He turned and left.

Ryker watched him leave. “You think he heard what I said?”

Bill shook his head. “No idea. I didn’t see him come in.”

“Well, what do you think? I think I need to look at matching Nicole’s missing knife with Jean Terry’s wound.”

Bill shrugged. “You could. But isn’t that quite a leap, even for you? Just because we haven’t found the weapon yet? You really are trying to connect this to your mysterious serial killer, aren’t you?”

“Come on, Bill. Think about it. Yesterday was October 21. He broke in and killed her. No sexual assault.” He looked around the room and spotted a purse, upturned on the kitchen counter. “He dumped her purse. Is anything missing?”

“Nope. Not even her cash.”

“That’s typical. Not even a pretense of a robbery.” Ryker’s pulse raced with excitement. It was tragic that another young woman was dead, but maybe now he could take this fourth murder to his chief and finally get him to link the cases and treat them as the work of one man—a serial killer.

THREE HOURS AFTER HE’D arrived at the scene of the crime, Ryker was in the St. Tammany Parish Crime Lab pacing back and forth.

“Wearing a hole in my floor is not going to make me go any faster.” Dr. Dave Miller was in scrubs, standing over the autopsy table, examining Jean Terry’s fatal wound.

Ryker hated the autopsy room. The previous M.E., Dr. Crouch, who was eighty if he was a day, had treated the victims like sides of beef. The fact that Ryker had known a woman who had ended up on Crouch’s table hadn’t helped.

Dave was the total opposite. Every move he made was kind and respectful. It made a big difference to Ryker, who had never learned to view a dead body as a separate thing from the person she had been.

“What can you tell me about her knife wound?”

Dave was peering through a large lighted magnifying glass. “Not much. I need to cast it, to get a truer representation of the shape and path of the blade. See this V?”

Ryker reluctantly moved closer to the table and looked through the magnifier. “That upside-down V? Yeah. I couldn’t see it earlier, because of all the blood. What would make that kind of wound?”

“Oh, it’s a knife all right. Single-edged. That’s a common pattern. It’s called forking. The blade entered her back here,” Dave said, pointing at the right side of the wound. “And exited here.” He shifted his finger to the left side.

“What do you mean?”

“She was most likely on her feet. Her attacker was behind her, chasing her.” Dave pushed the magnifier away and raised his arm, demonstrating. “He stabbed her with a downward motion. The blade entered between her shoulder blades, angling toward the right. He held on to the knife as she jerked and probably stumbled or fell. In any case, the blade exited at about a thirty-degree angle from where it entered.”

“That’s forking? I remember the term from Forensics, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wound like that.”

“How many stabbing deaths have you investigated?”

“Only one—two years ago. The weapon was a fireplace poker.”

“Messy.”

“No kidding. Especially after Crouch got done with

it.”

Dave didn’t comment. Another point in his favor. Ryker wanted to bite his tongue. It was never good practice to talk about a colleague, present or former.

“This upside-down V is typical of a stabbing,” Dave continued. “It’s unusual for a victim to remain still while being stabbed.”

“What are those marks on the edges of the cuts?”

“The knife’s guard. The attacker struck with force. He buried the blade up to the guard. It bruised the skin.”

“The guard? Is that like the hilt?”

“Yep. Hilts refer to swords, but it’s the same thing. It’s always good to have those marks on a wound like this. If I had a weapon to compare it to, that contusion could give us a match.” Dave pulled the magnifier down again and peered through it. “Now I need to concentrate.”

“Sure. I’ve got to write up my report. Let me know as soon as you know anything.”

“Definitely.”

As Ryker pushed open the door, Dave called out to him.

“Oh, Ryker, your victim had breast cancer.”

“Yeah?”

Dave nodded. “Double radical mastectomy, and evidence of radiation.”

“Is that relevant?”

“Hard to say. I’m curious to see if they got it all, and how much of the lymph nodes they got. I’ll order her medical records, and take a biopsy, just in case.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

Ryker headed to the precinct and wrote up everything he’d seen and done at the crime scene. Then, in a different document, he wrote his impressions of the murder, and how it fit his theory of a serial killer, from the date to his concern that the weapon used could be Nicole’s missing knife. He included Dave’s information about Jean Terry’s cancer, although he had no reason to think it had any bearing on her death.

Twice he was interrupted by phone calls. The first was from one of the deputies who’d run the kid in the other night, telling him that the boy was seventeen, had no priors, not even as a juvenile, but that he’d given them a tip that helped in a drug ring case they were trying to put together.

“Great,” Ryker had said. “Glad to help. Do me a favor and get your sergeant to tell my boss, will you?”

The deputy had laughed and said he’d try.

Then, before Ryker could get back to work, his twin brother, Reilly, called.

“Hey, old man.” Reilly’s nickname for Ryker referred to the fact that Ryker was older by seven minutes.

“Kid. What’s up?”

“I heard about the murder. Another notch on your serial killer’s belt, eh?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping this one will give me something concrete I can take to Mike.”

“Maybe so. Did you see Mom’s e-mail?”

“Nope. Been a little busy to follow the Delancey soap opera.”

“Well, it did ramble a bit, but the gist was reminding everybody about the anniversary barbecue.”

Ryker winced at Reilly’s implication. Their mother tended to ramble when she drank, whether talking in person, on the phone or via e-mail.

“I haven’t forgotten about the party.”

“Well, take a look at her message. She’s changing the date because Dad’s got to meet with his parole officer on their anniversary.”

Ryker cursed under his breath. How many ways could his dad’s skewed loyalty interfere with all their lives?

“I’ll check it,” he growled.

“So, you going to bring a date?”

“What do you think? If I can’t even check my mail, when do I find time to date?” Ryker tried to ignore the mental image of Nicole’s beautiful naked body that rose in his brain. “What about you?”

“Not only do I have no time, I have no prospects.”

“That’s sad, kid. Truly sad.”

“Yeah, well.” Reilly sent a few choice and colorful words across the airwaves.

“Same to you,” Ryker said, deliberately changing the subject from their dysfunctional family. “How’s SWAT?”

“Pretty slow right now. We’re doubling up on exercises and drills.”

“Good. See if you can learn how to aim better.” It was an old joke between them. Although they were identical twins, Reilly had inherited the sharpshooter gene. It was Ryker who’d had to work at his marksmanship.

“Right. Call me if you want me to take your handgun proficiency test for you.”

Ryker winced at the faint bitterness in his twin’s voice. Reilly had wanted the detective position that had been given to Ryker.

“Trust me,” Ryker said wryly. “You couldn’t shoot bad enough for them to believe you were me.”

The backhanded compliment earned a reluctant laugh from his brother. Ryker’s desk phone rang. “Hey, kid. I gotta go. Work calls.”

“Guess I won’t see you until the party, then. Bye.”

Ryker hung up his cell phone and picked up his desk phone’s handset.

It was Dave. “Ryker. I’ve got something for you.”

“I’ll be right there.” He sped over to the lab and ran to the autopsy room.

“Whoa!” Dave said as Ryker slammed open the door. “There’s no fire here.”

“Sorry. What’ve you got?”

“Take a look at this.” Dave pointed to a white elongated carving that lay on an exam table.

Ryker’s heart thumped when he saw it. It was the casting of the knife wound. Although the casting didn’t look like any knife Ryker had ever seen, he knew from the look on Dave’s face that he’d come to a conclusion about the knife that had been used to stab Jean Terry.

“Well?” Ryker said, not even trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“From the shape of the casting, and the appearance of the wound, I’d say the knife’s blade is around five and a half to six inches long. It has a curved return and a tapered bolster. I’d be willing to bet the blade is flexible, based on the shape of the wound.”

“Return? Bolster?”

Dave grinned. “Yeah. I suddenly developed a need to know a lot about knives. If you’re so sure you’ve got a serial killer on your hands, I want to make sure I don’t miss anything that might help you prove it.” He pulled up a diagram on his computer. “Here’s a breakdown of the parts of a knife. See there? The return is basically the end of the blade. The bolster is a collar that joins the blade with the handle.”

“So what does all that mean? Can you identify the knife?”

“If I had a knife, I could tell you how it compares to the knife that was used. I will say, in the short amount of time I’ve had to do research, I’ve concluded that the knife used to kill your victim was a boning knife.”

“A boning knife?”

Dave nodded. “Usually used by chefs to debone meat. The blade can be stiff or flexible. This one was flexible.”

Ryker’s pulse pounded in his head. “This could be it.” He clasped Dave’s shoulder and shook his hand. “This might be my break. If that wound was made with a chef’s knife, it could be the knife that he took from Nicole.”

“Nicole?”

“Nicole Beckham. Last year’s victim. She’s a chef. The killer was scared off by her roommate, but he got away with one of her knives. I don’t know which one.”

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