“Let me see—you don’t like to say ‘Merry Christmas’…”

He pulled his chin away, but she cupped his strong jaw and kept him facing her. The late-night shadow of his beard was scraggly and dark and added an air of menace to him.

“You don’t like anyone hinting that you’re a good cop who KCPD could still use and you don’t like admitting when you have feelings for someone.” Holly stroked her thumb across his lips. This guy made her toes curl inside her socks and brace for trouble.

The elevator hit a gentle bump and slowed its descent. “Am I pretty clear as to what your words are telling me?”

He opened his mouth, about to deny the truth.

Instead, he reawakened his dragon’s heart with another kiss…

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

Kansas City
Christmas

BY

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the Class of 1978. Fulton High School,

Fulton, Missouri.

Happy Anniversary to us. Anytime a place can take

a shy girl and give her a place to shine, a place to be

inspired by talented, dedicated teachers, and a place

to make dear, lifelong friends and memories—you

know it’s a good place.

Thank you.

Chapter One

April

“…And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.”

“I hope you find peace, Dad.” Edward Kincaid turned away from the funeral service in the distance and limped back up the sloping hill of Mt. Washington Cemetery to his own hell. It wasn’t the first time he’d been to a ceremony to bury a fellow cop. But it was the first time he’d shown up for one without wearing his own uniform or badge. And it was the first time he’d shown up to bury his own father. “I don’t know how. But I hope you do.”

Edward couldn’t feel the cold rain seeping through his hair and running down his scalp. But he felt the chill of the April day down in his knitted bones. He could barely make out the lyrics of the song his youngest brother, Holden, was singing. But he felt the mournful melody deep in his soul.

His mother and brothers, colleagues from the KCPD and more family friends than he could count were gathered on the opposite side of the copse of evergreens and ash trees to his back. But here were the only two people he wanted to be with right now. With his cane sinking into the mud, he awkwardly knelt down in front of the pink marble gravestone and wiped the rain away from the words carved there.

Beloved Wife. Beloved Daughter.

Cara and Melinda Kincaid. He should be in the ground beside them. Instead of them.

Tears burned in his eyes, but he didn’t shed them. He was all cried out months ago.

He heard the minister talking. He’d gotten this far. If he was going to do this thing, if he was going to face those mourners, he’d better get moving.

“I can’t stay today, girls,” he whispered. The thick, moist air swallowed up the gravelly rasp of his voice. “But I wanted…I wanted you to know that I’m sober today. I’m doing it for Dad. I wish I’d been strong enough to get my act together for you. I’m going to do right by him—by you, too. I threw out the bottles the night I got the call about…his murder. That’s five days sober. I’m going to make it one more.” One day at a time was what his AA sponsor kept telling him. One day was about all he had in him anymore. “I promise.”

Melinda would have jumped up and thrown herself into his arms to congratulate him. Despite her young age and her disability, his daughter had always been intuitive about moods. She knew when her daddy needed a hug, when he needed to be left alone, and when he needed someone to cheer him on and make him smile.

Five days without a drink wasn’t much for a man who’d been trying to numb his brain and heart since Christmas Eve, the first anniversary of their deaths. But Melinda’s pure love would have made him feel as though five days was the entire world. Cara would have been a little more low-key about the whole thing, saying something that would keep him from getting a big head about his accomplishment. And later, she’d find a way to congratulate him privately, personally—and very thoroughly. His two girls would have inspired him to live better than he had been, try harder than he knew how, feel more than he’d ever thought possible.

If only his wife and daughter were still with him. He didn’t want to be at the cemetery. He didn’t want to accept another death—especially not this one. He didn’t want to feel a damn thing.

But he owed his father a hell of a lot more than drinking himself stupid and not showing up for his funeral.

“I want you to look for Grandpa, angel.” Leaning heavily on his cane, Edward pushed himself up to his feet. “Grandpa’s coming to see you, he missed you so much. Give him a hug.”

His canvas jacket was soaked and clinging to his shoulders before he could finally tear himself away from the memories and guilt. But once his mind was back in the present, Edward turned his ear toward the ceremony continuing just thirty yards or so behind him. Holden had finished his song, and KCPD’s lady commissioner was speaking now, eulogizing his father. “Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid was the finest example of what being a Kansas City police officer is all about.”

Edward nodded in silent agreement and cut through the trees to study the sea of umbrellas and listen to the remainder of the service. The world itself was weeping at the injustice of the day. John Kincaid had inspired him to join KCPD. He’d taught Edward how to be a cop, a man, and a father—teaching by example. Edward had already lost more than he could stand when his wife and daughter were murdered. How was he supposed to deal with his father being beaten and shot to death as well?

The world made no sense. What was the point of following the rules and fighting for justice and giving a damn when the bad guys still won?

Back when he’d been an active-duty investigator and undercover cop for KCPD, he’d dealt with violence and death nearly every day, but he’d been able to remain detached and focused enough to get his job done. But then he’d lost Cara and Melinda, and death had become an inescapable, personal, destructive demon. Now his father, a good man—the man he’d once aspired to be—had been murdered as well.

How many pieces of his soul did a man have in him to lose?

Commissioner Shauna Cartwright finished her eulogy, and the blue KCPD uniforms all bowed their heads for the minister’s closing prayer. The twenty-one gun salute visibly jolted through his mother, Susan Kincaid, whom he could see sitting between two of his brothers—Atticus and Holden. His brothers wore their full dress KCPD uniforms with black mourning ribbons draped across the badges on their chests. He searched beyond the green awning to find his next eldest brother, Sawyer, standing hatless in the rain. He wore KCPD dress as well. Sawyer stood next to William Caldwell, one of their family’s oldest friends. Bill was leaning in, offering some condolence or words of wisdom that Sawyer would hear but not take, especially if the words involved patience or let someone else handle this. Bill Caldwell was like an uncle to them—having been a fraternity brother of their father’s and fishing buddy before any of John Kincaid’s sons were even born.

Edward was looking at a family in stoic devastation. It wasn’t a world that he’d ever wanted to welcome them to.

“What the…?” Edward pulled his shoulders back and stood a little taller. “Don’t do this, Atticus.”

It was one thing to feel the emptiness and injustice of the day. It was another to have to put words to it and deal with anybody else’s pain. But his brother had broken away from the gathering and was striding straight toward him.

Atticus’s gray eyes matched his, as determined to have this conversation as Edward wished he could avoid it. Stubborn son of a gun. Atticus wasn’t a man he could glare away. Not if the proffered hand was any indication.

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize what this means, Edward. It’s good to see you.”

The idea of turning around and walking away remained a distinct possibility. But the idea of explaining his cowardice to Cara or Melinda, who rested only a few yards away, was even more untenable. So he reached out and shook Atticus’s hand, grudgingly reconnecting with his family. Grief and anger and understanding passed between them. “Don’t you dare try to hug me.”

Atticus almost laughed at his grinch-like reply. But this wasn’t a day for laughter. Instead, his younger brother turned and stood beside him, watching as friends and family dispersed, ducking under umbrellas and walking down the hill toward their cars.

They stood together, like the old days, back when John Kincaid’s four sons had been invincible. Those days were long gone—for Edward, at least. The soft patter of the rain on the overhanging trees should have been a soothing sound. But Edward heard each plop against every branch like the ticking of a clock. Atticus didn’t do anything without a purpose, and he seriously doubted that this reunion was just a “Hey—how are you doing?”moment.

“You should come say hi to Mom. She knows you’re here, but it’d mean a lot to her if you made the effort to touch base.” He should have suspected Atticus’s mission before he spoke. “She’s hurting. We all are.”

Welcome to my hell.

But it was a sentiment he would never utter aloud to his grieving brother. Edward inhaled a deep breath and tried to say something appropriately sympathetic. “I’m sure Mom has invited people over to the house, but I can’t do the small-talk thing. Just give her my love.”

“Give it to her yourself. Let me get Sawyer and Holden on this. We’ll keep everyone away and you can have a private moment with her before she leaves Mt. Washington.”

“Atticus, I…” Grandma needs a hug, too. Edward ducked his head and turned away as his daughter’s sweet voice tormented his conscience.

He could wallow in grief and anger all he wanted. But he’d never been able to say no to his little girl.

His mother needed him right now. His family needed him. Edward had nothing left to give, nothing left to say. But for Cara and Melinda—and for John Kincaid—he’d find the strength to at least go through the motions. He’d find the caring that had been gutted from him somewhere along the way.

“I’ll meet you by her car in ten minutes.”

“WHEN I GAVE YOU BOYS literary names, I didn’t think you’d take them to heart.” Susan Kincaid, dedicated English teacher and loving wife and mother, patted Edward’s knee as she scooted closer beside him in the rear seat of the funeral home’s limousine, still parked on the road that twisted through Mt. Washington cemetery. “Edward Rochester Kincaid—just like Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester—you’ve been burned so badly by the world that you feel your only comfort is to hide away from it. He didn’t find peace until he was forced from his seclusion by Jane. He didn’t understand how much he was loved and needed, either.” Resting one hand on the folded American flag that sat in her lap, she reached over and laced her fingers together with Edward’s. “These are hellish circumstances to force you from your seclusion. But I’m so glad you’re here, son. It…soothes me.”

Soothing? Edward was shaking inside his skin with raw emotion and the uncertainty about what he should—and could—do to help his family through this tragedy.

Cocooned by the rain and three younger brothers who stood guard outside the long black car to ensure their privacy, the limo’s plush interior absorbed the scoffing noise Edward made. He breathed in his mother’s subtle perfume along with the musty dampness that clung to their clothes and took note of the slight tremor in her chilled fingers as they nested inside his broader, callused, scarred-up hand. He’d never been given much to romantic notions, not even before a killer bent on revenge had torn his life apart.

A year and a half ago Edward had been a damn good cop, one of the best undercover operatives KCPD’s drug enforcement division had ever put on the streets. Edward and his team had worked months to put one of Kansas City’s top cocaine suppliers out of business. Yet a technicality had allowed André Butler to walk away after a mistrial. Sure, Butler’s empire had been destroyed, his sources outed. But until a second trial could be mounted, the self-proclaimed modern gangster had walked out of the courthouse a free man—a free man looking for payback against the cop he’d trusted like a brother—a brother who had ultimately betrayed him.

Butler had been released on December twenty-third. His first stop after spending the night with a girlfriend and stealing her car the next morning? Edward’s front yard. According to witnesses, Melinda had been building a snowman that day, keeping herself busy while Cara loaded presents into the car for the Kincaids’ traditional Christmas Eve get-together at his parents’ home. Butler had lured Melinda out to the street, shot Cara when she tried to protect their trusting little girl and then shot Melinda to silence her wailing cries over her fallen mother. Edward had been out to pick up a bicycle with training wheels for Melinda’s Christmas present when he got the call about Butler being spotted near his own address. He’d raced and skidded over slushy, snow-packed streets in a desperate effort to get to his family.

By the time he turned the corner onto his block, Edward knew he was already too late. Butler ran to his car, turning his gun on Edward’s speeding SUV and firing off multiple shots. Edward prayed the bastard’s neck hadn’t snapped when he ran him down—that he’d died a slow, painful death. Though he’d barely felt it at the time, one of the bullets had cracked his windshield and pierced his chest, doing plenty of damage to his insides. Plowing over Butler, crashing through a line of parked cars and wrapping his engine around a tree had done even more. With both legs busted and his own blood leaving a crimson trail across the snow, Edward had crawled to the front sidewalk to try to breathe life back into the women he loved.

He’d taken out the bad guy, but he couldn’t save them.

Merry Christmas.

Yeah, any romantic notions he might have once had were long gone.

“Edward?”

His mother’s grip steadied as her soft voice jerked him back to the present. Why had he gone back to that morning? Too many beers had numbed his memory for too many months. But now that the physical mess of reclaiming sobriety had passed, every detail of that morning—every image, every hurt, every blame—stuck in his head with painful clarity.

He had no business being here, no business making this day any worse for his family than it already was. “Mom, I…”

Edward tried to withdraw his hand, but Susan held on tight.

He stared down at their interlocking fingers, resting atop his thigh. He was supposed to say something now. Unlike smoothtalking Holden, or Atticus who’d always been smart enough to figure out what needed to be said, or even Sawyer, who led with his heart and blazed ahead and dealt with the consequences later, Edward wished he was eloquent enough to either compliment his mother’s strength or console her grief. But his instincts about such things were rusty from months of lonely isolation, and the right words wouldn’t come.

They didn’t have to. Susan Kincaid hadn’t been married to a cop or raised four more for nothing. “I understand that you’re not ready to face a crowd of well-wishers. I’m sure the comparisons to Cara and Melinda’s funerals must be overwhelming. But it means everything to me that you made the effort to be here. For your family.”

Was simply showing up really enough? He turned his head and looked down into the sincerity shining from her dark eyes. No wonder his father had loved this woman so much. Edward leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Atticus can be pretty darn convincing.”

Susan stroked the neat, triangular flag that had been draped over his father’s coffin. Stress and sorrow had deepened the crow’s feet beside her eyes as she summoned a smile. “He doesn’t take no for an answer, does he.”

“Never has.”

“He’s stubborn, like your father. Smart like him, too.” Her smile faded into a wistful sigh. “Each of you has something of your father in him.”

Edward absently twirled his dark walnut cane in his right hand in the heavy silence that followed. He was more steel pins than bone from the waist down, his heart and soul gutted. What part of John Kincaid did he have left in him?

His mother didn’t need to be intuitive to sense his discomfort. She leaned her cheek into his shoulder. “Holden obviously looks like your father—sings like him and has some of that Kincaid Irish charm in him, too. Sawyer has his heart—his gentleness, his compassion—he’s just as eager to right the wrongs of the world as your father was. And you…?”

When she paused, Edward made a sound inside his chest that might once have been a laugh. “Hard to come up with something nice to say about me?”

“No. Hard to choose the right words to say so that you’ll believe them.” She turned in the seat to face him. “You’re the leader of this family now—”

“No.”

He shrugged away from her grasp and tried to retreat, but she simply followed him across the seat. “I know we’re all grownups. Your brothers are fine men and can take care of themselves. They’ve been taking care of me these past five days.”

His mother deserved better than an absentee son during a time like this. He should have been stronger. He should have been able to deal with this. “I’m sorry, Mom. I should have called. I was busy—”

“Coming to grips with the loss of yet another person you love.” Laced with a gentle understanding he didn’t deserve, the touch of her hand against his jaw was almost painful. “You were busy getting sober.”

For a moment, his eyes locked onto hers. “How…?”

Her pale mouth curved into a smile. “Your clothes smell clean. You trimmed that ratty beard. Your beautiful eyes are clear.”

“So I’m a bum who ignored my own mother in her time of need.” He turned away from her forgiving touch and intuitive gaze. “And you think I’m the leader of this family?”

She brushed her fingers across his jaw again, ignoring his sardonic tone. “Your father would be so proud of you today.”

He could pull away from the gentle touch, ignore the kind words. But the sheen of tears pooling in her eyes and spilling over did him in. Edward caught the first tear with the pad of his thumb and wiped the trail of sorrow from her cheek. “Mom…I…What are we supposed to do? Just because I’m the oldest doesn’t mean I can make sense of any of this. I can’t make this right.”

“But you can make it better. You have made it better, just by being here.”

“In a way, I can see one good thing about the girls not being here—I don’t know how I’d explain losing Dad to Melinda. She loved her granddaddy so much. I’m not eight and I wasn’t born with Down’s syndrome. And I still don’t understand this.”

“They were crazy about each other, weren’t they? John always called Melinda his little angel.” Susan Kincaid leaned her cheek into Edward’s hand. “I hadn’t remembered that. That’s a comfort to know they’ll be together again.” Wishing he had a handkerchief, Edward brushed away the new fall of tears. “Oh, Edward. I miss him so much.”

Some comfort. His mother reached for him, caught him around the waist and hugged him tight. Edward reacted before he realized what the gesture might cost him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close as his brittle defenses crumbled and her grief and confusion and anger flowed into his. “Just cry it on out, Mom. Just cry it out.”

Several minutes passed before her sobbing sounds became erratic sniffles and then softened into steadier, more even breaths. His shirtfront was damp and streaked with her makeup as she finally pulled away. Her face became lined with a frown of confusion as her fingers probed the front waistband of his slacks. “You’re not wearing your badge.”

His KCPD badge was locked in a metal box with his guns, gathering dust on the back shelf of his closet until he could decide if he would ever be ready to be a cop again. But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Kincaids were cops. The call to protect and serve was in their blood. That call had taken everything Edward loved. Today wasn’t the day to explain his guilt, however. A logical excuse would serve well enough. “I’ve been on leave since a year ago Christmas.”

Confusion briefly morphed into maternal concern. “Your doctor cleared you to go back on duty, right?”

“If I tended to my physical therapy the way I’m supposed to, then yeah, the doc says I could build up my strength and pass the physical. But I just don’t think I can…” He squeezed his fist around the brass carving on his cane. The stick of heavy walnut had become a mental crutch as much as an aid for the physical pain that would never completely leave his rebuilt joints. Images of Cara’s golden hair and Melinda’s effervescent smile blipped through his mind. His last mental snapshot of his family had seen that golden hair matted with blood and his daughter’s face lying pale and expressionless against the snow. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget. But the task proved impossible, and he jerked his eyes open at his mother’s gentle touch on his face.

“Shh.” Susan Kincaid stroked his cheek and hair as though he was her little boy again, and she could soothe his hurts away with a maternal magic that somehow managed to salvage some pride while still making him feel better. Though this was no skinned knee they were dealing with today. “I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not ready for. I have plenty enough to worry about on my plate. Your brothers are set on investigating your father’s murder themselves.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Sixteen months ago, he’d have been leading the pack to find the killer himself. “Don’t worry about them, Mom. The department has protocols in place. They won’t be able to play any official role in the case.”

She arched one eyebrow as she pulled her hand away. “It’s their unofficial curiosity that concerns me. We all want to find the killer, we all want justice. But I don’t want to lose anyone else in the process—I don’t want this to impact their careers or their lives any more than it already has.”

Edward nodded. “You want me to talk some sense into them? I don’t know that they’ll listen to me.”

“They’ll listen. They look up to you, son. They trust your wisdom about the world.”

“Mom, I—”

“Shh.” She pressed her fingers against his mouth, refusing to hear his protest. Right. He was the leader of the family now. Man, were they screwed. “Just…remind them to keep their wits about them. And to watch their backs.”

His eyes settled on a strand of gray hair that had fallen over her cheek. The gray hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her. The woman who’d been the Rock of Gibraltar for them throughout their lives was more vulnerable, more fragile than Edward had ever imagined. An inevitable sense of resignation—that call to duty that he’d tried to drink into a coma—awoke inside him. It was grouchy and unsure—and maybe even a bit afraid to take on the world again—but his mother’s need had reawakened it.

Reaching out, Edward brushed the gray hair off her cheek and tucked it beneath the rich dark hair at her temple. “I’ll talk to them. I’ll help them however I can.”

She blinked away another bout of tears and nodded her thanks. “And one more thing?” Why not? “I don’t have your father’s badge.”

Edward tried to follow her unexpected tangent. Had it been buried with him? Did she want it back? Or had it simply been misplaced? “Where is it?” She shrugged. Okay. Not misplaced. “I’m sure the commissioner would issue a memorial copy—”

“No. You don’t understand.” Susan tugged at the front of Edward’s coat, then quickly smoothed it back into place. “I want the badge he carried with him as a detective and deputy commissioner for all these years. It was never recovered from the crime scene. I don’t know if it was lost during the struggle in the park when they kidnapped him from his morning run, or if one of those murderers kept it as some kind of souvenir.”

Edward reached for his cane, certain that she was asking the wrong son for this favor. “Like I said, I haven’t been a cop for a while. Sawyer or Atticus could—”

“Edward. Please.” Her brown eyes darkened with her plea.

A muscle twitched beneath the scar on his jaw. He’d barely gotten himself to the cemetery. He’d already agreed to talking some cautionary sense into his brothers. He wasn’t equipped to ask questions or search for clues or go anywhere near a police investigation—not when the consequences for getting involved were so high.

“I can’t have the man I love anymore. But he was truly one of Kansas City’s finest for thirty-six years. He left the military and became a police officer the year I found out I was pregnant with you. That badge represents the best years of our lives together. All that he did for this city, the man he was, the sons we raised. It represents so much more than just his job to me. Does that make any sense?”

He’d packed away everything that represented his wife and child when he’d lost them. But one thing he’d taken to heart from those first few sessions with his trauma counselor—every person grieved in his or her own way. While he wanted to erase every painful reminder of loss from his life, his mother wanted to cling to the memories. Edward understood what she was asking of him. He understood that he was asking it of himself as well, though he couldn’t be sure how he was going to make it happen, or when, or what it might cost him.

“I want your father’s badge. If it takes two days or two years or forever to track it down, I want it back.”

“Okay.” That single word hurt—down deep in his soul. Even though this assignment was an unofficial one, he was going to be a cop again.

“Okay? You’ll do that for me?”

Edward wasn’t in any kind of shape to be making promises to anybody. But he made this one to his mother.

“I’ll do it.”

Chapter Two

December

With eight months of hard-fought sobriety inside him to filter his thoughts, Edward managed to keep a wiseacre response to himself as the teen with the bright smile behind the cash register chirped, “Merry Christmas!” and handed him his bags of groceries.

“Thank you for shopping with us, sir,” the girl went on, either genuinely caught up in the goodwill of the season or intent in her desire to impress her supervisor. Said supervisor, sporting a bit more weariness to his frozen smile, was pacing the bustling check-out lines, ensuring every customer had a positive shopping experience and would return to buy holiday turkeys and hams and whatever last-minute presents they might need in the upcoming two weeks.

At the girl’s tender age, Edward suspected it was the former. He tucked his billfold into the back pocket of his jeans and unhooked his cane from the edge of the counter before grabbing the two plastic bags. He sincerely hoped the young cashier would be way past his thirty-five years of age before learning to hate the cheer and dazzle and social expectations of the holidays as much as he did.

The economy might thrive on the holiday season. A few Pollyannas might. But Edward Kincaid did not.

For him, Christmas meant violence and loss and a lifetime of happiness and purpose he might never find again.

“Merry Christmas, sir.” The supervisor’s greeting echoed the cashier’s as Edward limped past.

His memory played a sweet lispy voice inside his head. “Merry Christmas, Daddy. Did you get my bike?”

“I did. A purple one. Merry Christmas, baby.”

He blinked, as if a physical jerk could shut off the nightmare of those last few moments of his daughter’s life. If he never said those words again, it would be too soon.

Clamping down on the bile of regret that rose in his throat, Edward acknowledged the man with a nod and walked out the sliding door, turning his face to the biting wind of a Missouri winter. He relished the icy crystals in the air, stinging his face and neck. Winter had come early to Kansas City this year. Snow had been on the ground for three weeks now, long enough to pack into drifts against buildings and trees and for grading salt and traffic to coat the pavement with a slick, slushy glop. The moisture beading on his charcoal sweater and the unzipped black coat he wore indicated another layer of this snowy mess was on the way. The dropping temperature that seemed to settle in his mended joints confirmed it.

Edward plunged the tip of his cane into the slush beside the curb, feeling even that tiny step down like the jab of a pin in his right ankle and knee. The twinges in his rebuilt body were tolerable most days. According to the doctors who’d stitched him back together, he was as healed as he was going to get. Now it was just a matter of building strength and continuing with his physical therapy exercises to maintain flexibility. His youngest brother, Holden, had insisted on giving him his weight-training set when he’d upgraded to newer equipment. Months of PT had made Edward fit. Dragging himself to the weight bench every time the need for a drink tried to take hold was getting him back into fighting shape. With the idea in mind that he’d wind up an arthritic old man before his time if he didn’t keep moving, Edward stretched his legs out to lengthen his stride and crossed the parking lot to his black SUV.

He’d just tossed the grocery sacks into the back seat of the Grand Cherokee when the cell phone on his belt hummed with an incoming call. He climbed in behind the wheel, tossed his cane over to the passenger side and started the vehicle’s powerful engine before unclipping the phone and checking the number. It was his youngest brother, Holden.

Edward cranked the defroster and opened the phone with a grin. “What do you want?”

“Bah, humbug to you, too.” Holden’s deep-pitched voice was laced with equal parts teasing and reprimand. “Where are you?”

Watching the first crystalline flakes dot his windshield and then melt away, Edward arched a dark brow with knowing sarcasm. Baby Bro wanted something. “I’m sitting in the grocery store parking lot, trying to get comfortable in my new car. You know, I had my old Jeep all broken in before you borrowed it and returned it a totaled mess after your jaunt down to the Ozarks with your girlfriend. This new model the insurance paid for doesn’t feel like home yet. It still has that new upholstery smell.”

“Um, hello? Witness protection? Bullets flying? You’re lucky I didn’t come back totaled.”

Damn lucky. Despite Holden’s sharpshooter and survival training with KCPD’s S.W.A.T. team—and the loan of Edward’s vehicle and expertise in hiding out from the world—he’d barely managed to stay a step ahead of the assassin who’d targeted the woman who’d witnessed their father’s murder. Liza Parrish would probably be dead right now if Holden hadn’t stepped up to volunteer as her personal bodyguard. Along with Sawyer’s discovery of a dangerous conspiracy, and evidence that provided motive and a list of suspects that Atticus had uncovered, Liza’s testimony had given KCPD a good description of their father’s murderer or murderers.

Eight months had passed since John Kincaid’s beaten body had been found slain, execution-style, in an abandoned riverfront warehouse. Edward’s years of experience on the force warned him that the longer it took to solve the case, the harder it would be to find the answers they needed. But soon, very soon, KCPD would put someone behind bars for the vicious crime and justice would finally be served.

If the Kincaid brothers had anything to do with it.

Three of them, at any rate. He was willing enough to help out where he could, but it had been a long time since Edward had picked up his gun and badge. If he could remain on the sidelines, it was probably just as well. His last few days as a fullfledged cop hadn’t done the people he cared about any good.

Pushing aside a niggling thought that was part relief, part regret and all guilt, Edward turned his focus back to his brother’s call. “I guess I’d rather have you around instead of that old Jeep.”

“You sweet talker, you.”

Right. I love you came about as easily to his lips as Merry Christmas. Holden understood.

“So, what’s up?” Edward asked, noting how the snow gathering in the clouds above had turned the afternoon into a hazy twilight.

“I want you to come to Christmas Eve dinner at Mom’s house.”

Little Brother didn’t beat around the bush, did he.

Though the idea of a family get-together, with presents and ornaments and food and laughter and love, hit him like a blinding sucker punch, Edward buried his knee-jerk reaction beneath the sarcasm that laced his voice. “I’m busy on the twenty-fourth.”

“Bull—”

“Watch your mouth, little brother.”

“When are you going to move on, Edward?” Holden asked, managing to sound irritated and concerned at the same time.

“I’m working on it.” Edward idly looked out the window to see people hunched down in their coats and scarves against the weather, their arms laden with sacks and packages, purses and briefcases—all going somewhere with a purpose. He used to be driven like that. Catch some bad guys, save the day. Hurry home to make love to his wife and play kickball or tag or read a book with his daughter. Since their deaths, it had taken him four months to get out of the hospital and learn to walk again, the rest of the year to move out of his house to a cabin in the countryside outside of K.C.—to settle in a quiet place where the memories couldn’t find him. It had taken longer still before a visit from his family or a trip to the store didn’t drain every last ounce of his emotional energy. “I’m working on it,” he repeated.

“I know you’ve come a long way. But…please. This will be Mom’s first Christmas without Dad. I think we should all be there for her. I think we all need to be together.”

So, when did the youngest of Edward’s brothers start to sound like the wise old man of the family?

“I don’t want to ruin anyone’s holiday with one of my moods.” He groused a curse beneath his breath. “Staying away might be the best gift I could give Mom.”

“Nobody believes that but you, big brother.” Holden’s voice brightened, changing the tone if not the topic. “We’d love it if you’d come, even if it’s just for a little while. Liza and I have an announcement to make.”

“Surprise, surprise. Are you finally gonna make an honest woman of her?”

“Finally? Give me a break, Dr. Romance. I was in the hospital recovering from a sucking chest wound and a concussion after our run-in with Z Group’s assassin, Mr. Smith.” Holden’s news didn’t surprise him. With a hit man relentlessly trying to silence Liza’s testimony about their father’s murder, falling in love had happened fast. But even Edward’s cynical soul had been able to see the depth of what was between them. “Then we had to find a new place for Liza that had room for three dogs after her house got all shot up. Those are all legitimate excuses for delaying wedding plans with the woman you love.”

“Got that out of an etiquette book, did you?”

But Holden wouldn’t be dissuaded. “So, are you coming to Mom’s or not?”

“She knows I love her.” He deserved a little flak for dropping out of the family—out of life—for so long. But he was making an effort—improving his family relationships, day by day. The rest of the world would have to wait to get his charming self back into the thick of things. “I’m a lot better about calling her than I was even a few months ago. Talked to her last night, in fact. I know she’s planning a quiet family kind of thing—Sawyer with his wife and son and mother-in-law, Atticus and Brooke with her aunts, you and Liza, Uncle Bill.”

“You’re on the guest list, too. Even if you’re just there for a…”

For a what? Edward whistled a long breath between his lips, feeling, not for the first time, the pain his addiction had cost his family. “A toast?”

“Sawyer’s wife, Mel, is pregnant, so she won’t be drinking any alcohol, either. Maybe none of us will. You know how Mom likes that sparkling cider.”

“Relax, little brother. Mentioning booze is not going to make me go out and have a drink.” There were a dozen other things that might tempt him to go back inside the store for a six-pack, but the mere mention of alcohol wasn’t one of them. “I’m okay. I’ll…think about the Christmas Eve thing.”

“You’ve already decided not to come, haven’t you.”

“Maybe I can stop by on another day.” And he would make the effort to do so. It was one thing for him to suffer through the season, but now that he was sober, he knew there was no good reason for his family to hurt any more than they had to. “Congratulations to you and Liza, though. I promise not to tell anyone until you make a formal announcement.”

“I’ve got eight days to change your mind. I’m not giving up.”

“Didn’t think you would.” The interior of the new Jeep had warmed up enough that Edward tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear and pulled off his black leather gloves. “Now, do you have some other reason for calling besides pestering me about family reunions?”

“I might.”

“Come on. I’ve been sitting here long enough that it’s snowing again. So spit it out.”

Though he normally went out on calls with his S.W.A.T. team, Holden had been assigned to temporary light duty—aka sitting behind a desk—since going back to work at the Fourth Precinct after his hospital stay and recovery time. Edward could hear some papers rustling in the background as Holden’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “We’ve come up with a lead on Dad’s murder that we—Sawyer, Atticus, Kevin Grove—the lead detective on the case—and me—believe we need your help to follow up on.”

“Me? I’ve got until January second to let Major Taylor know whether or not I’m coming back to KCPD. Until then, I’m off duty. I don’t even carry my badge anymore.”

“Exactly. You may have street connections that we could use beyond the standard pawn shops and fences.”

Edward had worked overt and undercover drug enforcement for most of his KCPD career. Once he’d had connections on both sides of the law. But since plowing André Butler beneath the wheels of his SUV, Edward hadn’t gone near any of his old “friends.” “You want me to do something illegal? Conduct a search without an official warrant?”

“All I want is for you to help us look for a ring. And maybe a couple of disintegrating bullets.”

“DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW…”

Holly Masterson’s singing softened to a hum as she squinted at her computer screen and typed in the next line of her autopsy report. COD—Natural Causes. Massive heart failure due to…

“In a one-horse open sleigh…”

Her fingers danced over the keyboard in time to the music playing over her earphones. Indigent lifestyle of malnutrition, exposure to elements and lack of medical…

“…laughing all the way. Ha, ha, ha. Bells on—”

The red light flashed on her office phone, indicating an incoming call. Holly killed the music as she saved her report. She spared a few moments to back it up to a disk and send it to the printer before pulling off her earphones and answering the call. “Crime lab. Dr. Masterson speaking.”

“Do I really have to call you Doctor? Can’t I just call you Squirt, the way I used to?” Holly grinned at the teasing in her older brother Eli’s voice. “So,what’s keeping you at the lab so late tonight? I tried to call you on your cell, but it went straight to voice mail.”

After a half dozen calls from the same unnamed cell phone, with no one on the other end when she picked it up, Holly had turned hers off and plugged it into its charger. But she had helped Eli raise herself and their younger sister since she was in high school and their parents had died in a plane crash. They’d weathered their sister’s rebellious choices and cocaine addiction together. A wrong number was nothing to worry an overprotective big brother about.

“I like to call it ‘work’,” Holly deadpanned. “You know I man the late shift at the lab, or you wouldn’t be calling me this close to midnight. So what’s up?”

“A guy can’t call his sister just to see how she’s doing?” That dry wit was a Masterson trait. “So…your car’s running all right? You got the stopper on that bathroom drain fixed? You’re not dating anyone I need to check out?”

“Yes. I’ll get to it. And no.” Holly grinned. “So, what’s going on that’s so important you needed to stay up past your bedtime and chat before our regular Friday lunch?”

Several minutes later, Holly was pacing in front of the windows that separated her office from the darkened lab and the autopsy room beyond. This close to the holidays, the crime lab ran a skeleton crew at night. Other than the derelict John Doe lying in the morgue, Holly was alone in the basement. She knew lab techs on the floors above her were monitoring ongoing fiber trace tests and editing background noise off some security camera footage. And she was having one of her own team members rerun a ballistics test on what she’d dubbed a disintegrating bullet—a mysterious new design of deadly ammunition that had shown up in several autopsies this year. Unfortunately, even by the time she’d discovered them inside the murder victims, the bullets had already begun to decompose, making it impossible to read striations and trace them back to the gun that fired it. They’d be lucky if her ballistics specialist, Rick Temple, could determine the manufacturer and caliber of the bullet.

But that was all backlog work. Without any pressing case demands, Holly herself had been making the most of the relatively quiet night—destressing with some music and reading through hard copies of reports. Ever since a virus introduced by an offsite hacker had destroyed several computer records back in April, she’d been using slow nights like this one to rebuild files and rerun tests where there was still evidence available. She took pride in her team’s clean chain-of-evidence record, and it galled her to think that one happy hacker could throw a monkey wrench into what had previously been solid cases, forcing investigations to be delayed or even circumstantial corroboration to be tossed out of ongoing trials. It was a matter of professional pride for Holly to make those evidence reports right again. For the victims in those cases, it was a matter of justice.

But with Eli’s phone call, a much more personal stress had returned. She’d find a way to handle this one, too. Raking her fingers through her short, dark hair, she repeated her argument to her brother.

“Jillian will be just fine. She came out of rehab a lot stronger than either of us expected, so you know that hardheaded Masterson gene is in her somewhere.” Eli had been worried about his other sister, not her, after all. “There’s no need for you and Shauna to cancel your holiday cruise. Between your job with the D.A.’s office and her responsibilities running KCPD, you two have never even had a honeymoon. And you’ve been married almost two years. Go. Have a merry Christmas. Not having to worry about our little sister is my gift to you.”

But Eli wasn’t convinced. “It’s not Jillian who concerns me. If that Blake Rivers bastard is back in town, then you know he’s going to put pressure on her to get back together with him. I swear to God, Holl, after all those years with the drugs when we thought we might lose her, Jillian is finally on a healthy, positive track. She’s gone back to college. She’s volunteering with those kids at the youth center. If getting back with her old spoiled, party-time boyfriend knocks her off her game again…”

“You’ll do what? You know, just because you’re not a cop anymore doesn’t mean you don’t have to follow the rules.”

“I didn’t follow them when I was a cop.”

Holly tucked her long bangs behind one ear, nodding her head in wry agreement. Following the rules was one Masterson trait that was uniquely hers. “We have to give Jillian the chance to make her own decisions and then stand up to the consequences on her own. We can’t bulldoze in and take care of everything for her. That’d just be a form of co-dependency all over again.”

The flicker of a shadow moved past the translucent glass door leading to the hallway, interrupting her thoughts and pacing. She was alone down here, wasn’t she? That’s why she’d dimmed the lights outside her office. No sense wasting the energy if she was the only one working in the lab. John Doe certainly didn’t need the light.

She stared hard at the clouded glass, waiting for the movement in the hallway to repeat itself. She wasn’t one to doubt what she’d seen, but she did like to have an explanation for things—be it an overnight cleaning staff employee coming in early, an electric short in one of the hallway lights, or even something as arcane as a ghost. She just wanted to know.

The glass darkened for an instant as the shadow passed by in the opposite direction.

“Holly?”

Jumping inside her skin at the prompt of Eli’s voice, she turned away from the distraction and focused on making her point. “You and Shauna need to get on that plane tomorrow and fly to Florida. Take your cruise. Enjoy it. Jillian needs to be the one to tell Blake where to get off if he tries to rekindle a relationship she’s not interested in.”

“What if she is interested? What if Rivers won’t take no for an answer? I’ll be a thousand miles away.”

“You’ll be right where you should be. With your wife.” Holly circled around behind her desk, double-checking the duty log and silently accounting for all the staff and techs scheduled to be in the building at this hour. “I can look out for Jillian. And I’ll handle Blake, too, if he causes trouble.”

“I always could count on you to be the sensible one.” Some of the tension eased from Eli’s voice and she could imagine him smiling. “All right. I’ll go. I’ll have my phone, though. If you need anything, call me.”

“No. I won’t. If something comes up, I’ll take care of it myself.” With one part of her brain still marking off people she’d seen in their labs, offices or the break room, Holly tried to put her brother completely at ease. He had a honeymoon to get to, after all. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big girl. So is Jillian. The two of us have already planned to have Christmas dinner and exchange gifts. We’ll be fine. Have a wonderful trip. Put on some sunscreen and give my love to Shauna.”

Eli hesitated for a moment, but ultimately, he gave in. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right. I’ll do my best to enjoy some quality time alone with my gorgeous wife.” Holly smiled as she was meant to and he continued, “Love you, sis.”

Though she suspected he’d leave his phone on 24/7—just in case—he conceded that at thirty-five, with a doctor’s degree and a demanding job, she was a big enough girl to handle herself and their sister’s ex-boyfriend if need be. “Love you, too, Eli. Bon voyage.”

After hanging up, Holly checked the clock on the wall in her office. A few minutes past midnight. Time to shut things down and head out.

But though she turned off her computer and locked up the hard copies of the files she’d had out, Holly Masterson wasn’t about to leave her lab until the mystery of the out-of-place shadow was resolved. She turned on her cell phone in case Jillian called and dropped it into her lab coat pocket. After closing the office door behind her, she flipped on the lights and ventured out into the bright, chilly sterility of the lab. Pausing only to turn off the colored lights on the miniature artificial Christmas tree she’d set on one of the stainless steel counters, she made a quick circle around the empty room, peeked in on John Doe in his drawer, then headed for the hallway door.

There, she turned off all the interior lights again and waited. If there was a short in one of the hall sconces that was going on and off and creating the illusion of shadows, it would be easy to spot from this vantage point. Wait for it. Wait for it. “Hmm. No problem with the lights.”

Checking that possibility off her list, she opened the door a crack and listened for sounds. No ding of the elevator’s bell, no whir of it rising on its cables and pulleys. No footsteps. Nothing beyond the endless whoosh from the heating vents, trying to warm up the common areas of the building to a more humane environment than the cooler temps used in the labs. So she was alone. Unwilling to give much credence to the ghost theory, Holly deduced that someone had walked past the door—twice—while she’d been on the phone with Eli. Someone who was lost because her lab, office and the autopsy room were the only destinations on this level. Yet no one had come in. Asked for directions. Shown up to ID the body in her morgue. So, who would be wandering through the basement at this time of night?

No one, apparently. It was probably the late hour that had her spooked. “Give it a rest, girl.”

Ignoring the twinge of annoyance that she couldn’t solve a simple mystery, Holly pulled the door shut behind her and jogged up the stairs to the first floor. The stairwell proved empty as well, and since she hadn’t heard the elevator moving, there was no sense looking there. She nodded to the guard manning the reception desk on her way to the locker rooms at the rear of the building. But the need to find an answer just wouldn’t go away.

Holly fisted her hands inside the pockets of her white coat and turned back to the guard. “Floyd? Did you see anyone going down to the basement? Within the last ten minutes or so?”

He looked up from the paper he was reading. “No, ma’am. No one’s been in or out the lobby for the past hour. The cleaning crew’s not set to come until one.”

“None of the guards were making rounds downstairs, were they?”

“Not that I know of. Is there a problem, Doctor?”

Holly shook her head and smiled. “I thought I saw someone down there, but no one checked in with me at my office.”

Floyd reached for his cap. “Would you like me to run down and sweep for an intruder?”

“No, no.” She waved him back to his seat. “There are only so many ways to get in or out of the basement, and if you didn’t see anyone on the elevator or the stairs…?”

He wrinkled up his forehead with an apology. “Not for the past hour, ma’am. Not until you came out that door just now.”

“Okay. Well, maybe I just imagined the company.” She didn’t quite believe that, but without any evidence or witnesses to the contrary, there was nothing to do but go home. “Good night, Floyd. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

Once inside the locker room, Holly shed her lab coat and hung it inside her locker. Since she’d already traded her surgical blues for warm jeans and a turtleneck sweater after completing John Doe’s autopsy, changing for the drive home only meant bundling up for the winter weather outside. Pushing aside the gun and holster she wore on field calls, Holly pulled her tealgreen stocking cap and matching scarf from the top shelf.

Once she had her coat buttoned up, she turned on the blinking red nose of the Rudolph pin at her lapel. The gaudy reindeer jewelry was a testament to her late mother, who’d loved to decorate and celebrate the holidays in a big way. Her parents had been gone for fifteen years, her family fractured. But over the years, she’d grown closer to Eli and Jillian than they’d ever been as children. Now, instead of missing her parents, she paid homage to them by maintaining some of their happiest—and goofiest—traditions. Touching the pin and feeling a loving smile from somewhere in Heaven, Holly grabbed her purse and gloves and headed for the exit.

If she was lucky, the streets would be cleared, the traffic would be light and she could get home to her apartment and get some decent sleep before she had to report for work again in the morning.

She had just pulled one glove on when her cell phone rang. Surely Eli wasn’t calling for another round of how she and Jillian couldn’t survive without big brother in the house. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her phone. The same familiar word instead of a number stared back at her.

Unnamed.

“Okay, fella.” Breathing out a weary sigh, Holly opened the phone. “Hello?”

Nothing. But the connection was live. She could hear the faint hiss of shallow breathing in the background.

“Hey. I know you’re there. You have the wrong number. You need to stop calling me.” More silence. Not even so much as a suggestive or crude message if that was his intent. Just…someone listening. “Who is this?”

Click.

She jerked the phone from her ear as if the soft disconnect had been a zap of static electricity.

What the hell kind of psych game was this? Holly snapped the phone shut and dropped it into her purse as she pushed open the door to the main hallway. “Idiot.”

A blur of white lunged at her from around the corner. “Gotcha!”

Holly yelped, automatically punching at the man who’d startled her while her heart was already thumping in her chest. “Damn it, Rick!”

Guffaws of deep-pitched laughter faded into a wide toothy grin on Rick Temple’s clean-shaven face. “Oh, that one was priceless. If you could see your expression.” He rubbed at a spot on his shoulder. “But you’ve got a mean punch, Doc.”

Talk about idiots. How one man could know so much about forensic science and yet beans about interacting with people in a mature, normal way eluded her. “What are you, in junior high? Sorry about the bruise, but startling the crap out of me is not funny.”

“Depends on your perspective.”

Holly flashed a grin that was more of a sneer than sincere. “You’re a grown man. One of these days you’re going to have to start acting like one. These practical jokes are hard on my blood pressure.”

“Oh, but you make it too easy, lady. Walking around all serious, focused all the time. I’ve got to lighten you up.”

“Giving me gray hairs isn’t the kind of lightness I find amusing.”

“You’re not that old, Doc. You’ve got to start having some fun.” At least he had the decency to retrieve the glove she’d dropped. She knew him to be thirty-two years old, but the grin he still wore looked two decades younger as he handed over the glove. “Think of these little encounters as my way of keeping you on your toes.”

Did he think she wasn’t doing her job? The corrupted evidence files she’d been trying to re-create made her prickle a little more defensively than usual. Not for the first time, she wondered how much of Rick’s teasing was really a warped sense of humor and how much might be resentment that she’d gotten the supervisory job that they’d both applied for. It might be wise for her to remind him who was in charge. “You know, Rick, if you weren’t as good at your job as you are, I might have to write you up for your…personality quirks. If any of your jokes interfere with anyone’s ability to do their job…”

“Oh, good one, Doc. Flatter me and call me out, all in the same sentence.” He pulled back the front of his lab coat and shoved his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. “I just wanted to catch you before you left and let you know that the preliminary report on that bullet I’m processing doesn’t look promising. I’ve been able to break it down into its components, and maybe even tell you how they’re decomposing so quickly. But pull a manufacturer’s name off it? Even at a microscopic level, I haven’t been able to pull anything substantive off the casing.”

Good. Fortunately, he could be serious when he talked about work. “Any luck with the caliber?”

“I’m guessing a thirty-five mil. I should be able to give you something definitive by the morning.”

Holly was breathing normally now. Her smile was genuine. And another possibility regarding the mysterious shadow had presented itself. “Thanks, Rick. Say, were you down in the basement a few minutes ago, trying to catch me with your update? I was on the phone, but you could have come in.”

“No.” As her humor returned, his faded. “I just now came down from the ballistics lab. Are you checking on me every moment of every shift now? Or do you just miss working side by side with me?”

“We still have plenty of opportunities to work together. I thought someone might be looking for me, that’s all. Thanks. I’ll look forward to that full report.”

“First thing in the morning, I promise. You headed out?”

She nodded. “I’m done for the night. See you at seven?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Good night.”

“Boo.” He flashed his hands in her face, startling her slightly. “Too easy. Just too damn easy.” Rick’s chuckle disappeared with him into the men’s locker room.

Shaking her head, Holly pulled on her remaining glove and turned toward the exit to the parking garage.

Nine nights out of ten, Holly enjoyed working the late shift. With a few juvenile colleague exceptions, she preferred the quiet and solitude of the nighttime hours. Dealing with fewer people meant she could concentrate on her work. Dissecting bodies and processing biological evidence tended to have an isolating effect in the first place, but the calm and quiet and focus on the job were what allowed her to deal with crime scenes that could often be gruesome, and victims who were always some form of tragic. Having to deal with the victim’s family or witnesses on top of the crime itself could be draining.

Yet tonight she couldn’t seem to settle inside her skin.

Holly pushed open the thick steel door that led from the lab building into the attached parking garage. The heels of her boots grated against the concrete as she strode to her car, the abrasive grinding of soles and grit echoing off the walls of the garage. There was an edginess crawling through her veins, and despite knowing she’d be reporting to help with a double-shift in the morning, she was beginning to think she wasn’t going to be getting much sleep tonight.

She didn’t know if it was the unexplained shadow or the pesky anonymous phone calls that had her so off-kilter. Maybe it was Rick’s eternal pleasure at getting a rise out of her or the conversation she’d had with Eli. No doubt it was a combination of all those things that made her so uneasy.

Lengthening her stride, she hurried past cars and trucks and empty parking slots. She pulled her keys from her purse and squeezed her fist tighter around the shoulder strap. Chances were, she was subconsciously preparing herself for another surprise from Rick.

That’s why, when she heard a car door open, she didn’t immediately panic. Enough was enough. If he wanted to keep playing these games, then she would chew him up one side and down the other like the immature child he was.

Only, that was no child climbing out of the black Jeep next to her Honda. And it wasn’t Rick.

Holly stopped. Stared. Retreated a step as a dark-haired man slowly unfolded himself from behind the wheel.

Rick Temple was merely annoying. This guy made her curl her toes inside her socks and brace for trouble.

When she wore her high-heeled boots, Holly stood six feet tall. This guy was taller. Broader. The brass tip of a cane clacked against the concrete, drawing her attention down to the ground for a split second. When the car door closed, her gaze darted back up to collide with eyes that were gray and hooded and cold like steel. The late-night shadow of his beard was scraggly and dark and added an air of menace to his square jaw and angular features. Despite the cane, he moved from the shadows with a deliberate grace and Holly instinctively backed away.

“Dr. Masterson?” His gritty voice was deep in pitch, but hoarse, as though a cold had settled in his throat.

He knew her name? “Yes?”

Was that her pulse hammering in her ears? Or warning drums thundering inside her head?

The gray eyes cut right to the truth. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

Impossible.

“I need to talk to you.”

This man was no shadow.

And he was no practical joke.

Chapter Three

Great job, Lieutenant. The woman was running.

“Dr. Masterson?”

In the time it took her to spin around and move those long legs a couple of steps, Edward hooked his cane around her elbow. She twisted to escape but he tugged her off balance and caught her with his hand.

“Let go of me!”

When her leather purse came sailing toward his head like a roundhouse punch, he deflected the blow with his shoulder. “Hey! Watch it!”

A knee came next. He was forced to drop his cane and wrap both hands around her upper arms to protect himself.

“Let. Go,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t understand.” There wasn’t much meat on her tall, lean figure, but what was there was all muscle. As his grip tightened, her struggles increased. “I just want to talk.”

“Then let go.”

“You’ll run.”

“I’ll scream.”

She was already making plenty of noise. Edward stifled a sigh. Their names had crossed during one investigation or another. He recognized her face from trials where they’d both testified. But he was still a virtual stranger. He should have introduced himself. Man, was he out of practice in dealing with people.

Trying to look less threatening and guessing he was failing miserably, Edward guided her back against a concrete pillar, easing his grip on the pink wool of her coat. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a…” Cop. Wrong. He couldn’t exactly say that anymore. “I’m Edward Kincaid. You know my brothers Sawyer and Atticus. You and I have met briefly before—a couple of years back. Through work.” He waited for the names to register, the recognition to show in her eyes. Framed by long sable lashes, they were hazel green with beautiful gold sunbursts, doubts and suspicion shining from them. His hands were simply resting against her sleeves now, though he had her escape pretty well blocked with his body. “I need to ask you some questions about my father’s murder.”

She finally stopped twisting like a fish on the end of a hook, but her nostrils flared and her narrow chest rose and fell, unexpectedly distracting him, as she fought to regain control her breathing and this ridiculously out-of-whack meeting. “John Kincaid? You’re his oldest son?”

“Yes.”

“The late deputy commissioner was your father?”

“Yes. You performed his autopsy.”

Her eyes narrowed past pretty and she batted his hands away. “Haven’t you heard of the telephone?”

“I thought this was a conversation better done face-to-face.” Raising his hands in mute surrender, he tried to show her—albeit a little too late—that he had no intention of harming her. “I didn’t expect you to think you were being assaulted. I guess my face has changed more than I realized since the last time our paths crossed.”

“You said that before. When did we work together?”

“We testified at the same trial.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black leather coat. She didn’t need to see the fists he had to make in order to say the dead man’s name. “André Butler’s.”

“Yes, of course, I remember now. Drug trafficker. Gang leader. Fancied himself a mini mobster. That ended in a mistrial. He…Oh.”

The color drained from her cheeks. He could see the apology—then the pity—cross her expression almost as quickly as the recognition appeared. She was checking out the scars along his jaw from the crash. Remembering the headlines. Maybe she’d even attended the funeral. The one that he’d been too busted up to remember much about. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Your family. I worked on all three…” She pressed her lips together, cutting that line of conversation. “Of course, I remember you. You should have introduced yourself sooner, Detective.”

“Let’s just go with Edward or Kincaid for now.” He wasn’t about to explain that one. He drew in a deep breath, determined to start this conversation all over again. If Holden could talk him into doing some legwork on this case, then he’d better do it right. His fists eased their grip inside his pockets. “I apologize for alarming you, but I was told you worked the night shift. I thought I could catch you on the way home.”

“Instead, you scared the life out of me,” she said. He turned to keep her in his line of sight as she moved away from the pillar to the open area in the middle of the garage. He’d give her the space and pray that with those legs she didn’t bolt. In some ways, he was in better shape than he’d been before the accident. But he didn’t think his right knee and ankle had a quick sprint left in them. “If you need to consult on a case, you should make an appointment.”

Turn around. Look me in the eye. Show me you’re not running. “This isn’t exactly an official visit,” he explained.

With that, she stopped. He forced himself to look away from the heart-shaped rounding of her bottom as she squatted down in her jeans. Just being polite, he told himself, pretending a few dormant male hormones hadn’t just stirred to life below his belt buckle. Well, if feeling guilty at perking up over a woman who wasn’t his late wife didn’t put him in a mood, then Holly Masterson’s actions did.

She stood and turned, holding out the cane she’d picked up. Held it out with an apologetic “Sorry” like he was some kind of crippled old man who needed her help.

Edward snatched it from her grasp and plunked the tip down on the concrete, feeling a sudden need to lean on its support.

“What is it, then?” she asked. Despite his surly lack of thanks, she was looking more curious than irritated now. And the fear he’d put in her eyes a few minutes ago was long gone. “Have you discovered a new lead on your father’s murder?”

Right. He was here to work. To ask questions and do things a regular cop couldn’t do. Hormonal reactions and hits to the ego had nothing to do with this. “Detective Grove is running the investigation, but I have a different angle I want to work on the case.”

“And you have clearance to do that on your own father’s murder?”

“I said it was unofficial.”

“I see.” She worked her green-gloved fingers around the strap of her shoulder bag. When the kneading movement stilled, she tipped her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “You do know that the two bullets I recovered from your father’s body in April have since decomposed to the point that they’re useless for any kind of clinical analysis. And that my lab’s original ballistics and trace reports on them were purged from my computer files by a virus?”

His brothers had filled him in on the destruction of evidence that seemed too convenient to be any kind of accident. “Those are just a couple of the problems I have with this case. That’s why I’m taking advantage of my…inactive…status with the department to do a little investigating on my own.”

She clutched the strap tighter and took a step closer. “You think there’s someone on the inside messing with this case?”

“Possibly.” Somebody with connections somewhere had been systematically eliminating witnesses and destroying evidence almost as soon as they were uncovered. Z Group, the covert agency Edward and his brothers believed was behind their father’s murder, had vast resources—enough to pay off or extort cooperation from almost anyone. It was the players who wouldn’t cooperate—like John Kincaid—who’d been silenced. “I don’t want to think it’s a cop, but there are a lot of other people with connections to the department to consider as well—the lab, the press, technical staff, veterans, family.”

She shook her head. “No one from my lab—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just looking for answers.”

Her smooth, unadorned lips curled into a pensive frown. But those hazel eyes indicated she’d been thinking something through from the moment he’d released her. It almost startled him when her face relaxed into a smile. “I’ve never liked an unfinished puzzle. As long as it’s not illegal, how can I help?”

The steel door leading from the garage into the building opened behind her and a young man with spiky brown hair walked out. Edward lowered his voice. “I’d rather not discuss it here. Are you free right now? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

It was half past midnight on a Wednesday morning. But he was hoping her work schedule meant she was a fellow night owl. “Well, I was planning to go home and get five hours of sleep before I have to turn around and come back to work in the morning. We’re all covering extra shifts during the holidays so folks can go on vacation and be with their families.”

Holidays. Holly. Oh, joy. The blinking reindeer nose on her coat had been far easier to ignore than the unique color of her eyes. But now Rudolph seemed to be flashing in his retinas like some kind of danger warning. Suddenly, what had just been another winter night was now one of the final shopping days left before Christmas. Suddenly, he was bleeding out in the snow and saying Merry Christmas to his daughter for the very last time.

“Hey.”

Something soft and warm brushed across the back of his knuckles and Edward’s eyes popped open. Oh God. Where had he gone? What had he said? Was he scowling as hard as the cramp in his jaw indicated? He needed to get out of here and get a beer.

No, Daddy. You promised.

“Fine. No beer.”

“Excuse me?” The blurring of past and present cleared and he saw the green glove resting atop his hand where it fisted around his cane. He heard the articulate voice. Focused in on the confused concern shining in those clear green-gold eyes. “Are you okay?”

Every impulse in his body screamed to turn his hand and hold tight to Holly Masterson’s gentle touch, as though it was a lifeline to sanity and redemption. But that was crazy. He was crazy. The good doctor was just being kind.

Edward wisely pulled away before she called the loony wagon on him. “Yeah. Um, sorry about that. I was asking—”

“Holly?” The young man who’d entered the garage a moment ago called to her from a pickup truck a couple of vehicles away. “Is everything okay? I thought you’d already gone.”

Edward couldn’t help but notice the flinch in her shoulders as the young man approached. He’d been looming over her like some kind of beast from a fairy tale, but this clean-cut college boy startled her?

“Sure, Rick. Everything’s fine.”

Rick’s gaze darted from his coworker up to Edward and quickly back to Holly again. “Do you want me to wait for you to get into your car?”

“I said I was fine. Thanks for asking, though. I’ll see you tomorrow.” When she shifted her full attention back to his own beastly countenance, her voice was clear and certain. “Shall we go solve that puzzle? Edward?”

The man named Rick climbed into his truck and started the engine, but Edward was painfully aware that he didn’t back out and drive away. He nodded to Holly, not sure if he was feeling ashamed or angered at the other man’s assumption that, just by his fearsome appearance and proximity, he meant her harm. And why was it even more unsettling that her initial fear of him had abated to the point that it sounded as though she was defending him?

“Name the place,” Edward answered, worried about just what kind of emotional roller coaster ride he’d signed up for when he’d agreed to help Holden find their father’s killer. “I’ll follow you.”

He had a feeling the man named Rick would be following him.

THE MOONLIGHT CAFE AND COFFEE BAR on the Plaza stayed open until two in the morning between Thanksgiving and New Year’s to make the most of the influx of tourists and locals who came to see the million-plus holiday lights decorating nearly every rooftop line of the historic upscale shopping and entertainment district. Whether they’d come to have a drink, see a movie or soak up the pervasive holiday atmosphere, the sidewalks and streets were crowded. People from all over the city, and visitors staying in the nearby hotels, were walking about, looking in dressed-up storefront windows and enjoying the festive glow that was both literal and metaphoric this time of year.

The steady fall of light snow that added an extra few inches of white to the hilly streets didn’t deter any of the couples sharing horse-drawn carriage rides. The dropping temperatures that nearly froze Brush Creek and the scenic walkway on either side of it didn’t keep groups of young-somethings from taking souvenir pictures and hopping from one establishment to the next. If anything, the wintry weather seemed to intensify the laughter and “Look there!’s” and romantic appreciation for the district’s Mediterranean architecture, statues and fountains, even if the water in the fountains had been turned off until spring.

Edward Kincaid, however, looked miserable.

Watching him across the polished black tabletop, Holly cradled a cup of almond green tea in her hands, warming her fingers and letting the aromatic steam waft through her nose and keep her senses energized. Edward had removed his leather coat to reveal that it wasn’t shoulder pads that made him appear so broad and intimidating. His size and height were the real deal. The color of the heavy knit charcoal sweater he wore reflected in his gray eyes and made them equally dark.

He didn’t smile, didn’t say much beyond the business at hand, yet his eyes never seemed to be still. Though he continued to face Holly over his mug of black coffee, his gaze darted around, seeming to take in any nearby movement—the waitress carrying a tray, patrons settling in at the bar area, a couple packing up and leaving the booth behind Holly. He studied Holly herself, whenever she raised her cup to take a sip, or when she spoke.

There was something slightly unnerving about the intensity of his steel gaze, an alert watchfulness that made him seem inordinately aware of his surroundings. The man just couldn’t seem to relax. Maybe it was a by-product of his time spent working as an undercover detective for KCPD’s drug enforcement team. Or maybe he just didn’t like the close confines of a crowd.

But to his credit, even when they had to wait ten minutes to get a table instead of sitting at the bar, he didn’t complain. And though he hadn’t zoned out on her again as though he was being buffeted by waves of pain, the way he had at the lab’s parking garage, he didn’t seem to say much more than he had to.

The brooding intensity and lengthy silences made Holly wonder just what was going on behind those alert, soulful eyes. Maybe because of the air of complexity that shrouded him, this secretive, solitary man definitely intrigued her.

“My apartment’s not too far from here,” she commented when she realized she was doing more studying than talking herself.

“One of the brownstones?”

Holly nodded. That’s why she’d picked this particular place to share a conversation. While she knew who the detective sitting across from her was, she didn’t really know him personally. And though she found Edward Kincaid the most interesting mystery to solve of the day, the practical experience of watching her younger sister allow one wrong man after another into her life—just to ensure her next fix—had taught Holly that acting impulsively on this strange attraction to the taciturn detective might not be the wisest move she could make. If things got too weird, she could quickly duck out and get home to the safety and serenity of her own place. “I live on one of the hills south of Brush Creek Boulevard, so I’ve got a great view of all the Christmas lights.”

He didn’t respond to that. After savoring a long drink from his mug, he shifted the conversation back to his reason for asking to meet her in the first place. “When you performed your autopsy on my father, was there any indication that he’d been wearing a ring?”

So much for getting acquainted. She’d already guessed that his raspy, low-pitched voice was a permanent thing—due to injury or surgery of some kind, not a temporary cold. And closer observation had shown her that his chocolate brown beard wasn’t unkempt, after all. Instead, the scraggly effect was actually a normal midnight shadow coming in around a splash of scars that dotted his jawline and right cheek.

On the outside, she was learning about—and unexpectedly liking—Edward Kincaid. But no way was he going to let her see the man behind the eyes.

She reminded herself that this wasn’t a date. He wanted to pick her brain about autopsies and corrupted lab reports.

“Let’s see.” Holly sipped her tea and sorted through the information inside her head. The kind of details he wanted had been deleted from her file by the virus, but she retained a mental image of every victim she’d ever worked on in her head and her heart. In her memory, she gently traveled over John Kincaid’s bruised and broken body, stretched out beneath the bright lights of her lab. “He had a wedding ring on his left hand.”

Edward sipped his coffee and nodded. “Mom insisted he be buried with it. Could there have been a second ring?”

Her eyes closed and she drifted back in time to her lab. She tried to picture each hand in her mind. No indentations at the base of any finger, indicating the habitual wearing of any other jewelry. But a remembered notation popped into her head and she opened her eyes. “Wait.” She set her cup in its saucer and leaned forward, gesturing across the back of her neck. “There was a long, thin abrasion at his nape. I thought it might be related to the beating he took. He’d been tied up so…”

A muscle ticked along his jaw as Edward pressed his lips into a thin grim line.

Holly instinctively reached across the table, cursing her own careless words. “I am so sorry.” Just as quickly, she curled her fingers into her palm and drew them back. He was here for information, not sympathy. “It’s a professional thing,” she explained. “I have to stay clinical when I make these kinds of reports—so emotional reactions don’t clog my perception of things—but I know it’s personal for you. You don’t want to hear—”

“I want to hear anything that can help.” His words indicated that he’d learned to detach his emotions from his job as well. “Tell me about the mark on his neck.”

For a moment, Holly was struck by the sheer strength of will it took to go through everything Edward Kincaid had suffered and still be able to get up in the morning, much less carry on a conversation or run an investigation into something so personal, so violent. Maybe she’d just gotten her first glimpse inside the man.

And maybe she’d better shut off her speculation and any resulting compassion or admiration. He clearly didn’t want to deal with his emotions. Holly took another sip of the tea that had grown tasteless on her tongue and continued. “I wish I could review my notes to be sure, but if I remember correctly, the mark was made postmortem. Something like that could be caused by tearing a necklace off someone’s neck. Could your father have been wearing the ring on a chain?”

“It’s possible. If the ring was something he’d had for a while, then it might not fit his fingers anymore. I never knew him to wear one. But then…” he leaned back against the black vinyl seat, “I dropped out of his life for a while.” After losing his wife and daughter to a vengeful André Butler, that was probably an understatement. “I didn’t even know he was looking into Z Group on his own time, so, why would I know about changes in the style of jewelry he wore?”

“Z Group? Your brother Atticus mentioned that when I was working a Jane Doe murder investigation with him. He thought she was connected to your father’s murder—that they both had worked for the same security organization at one time. They were both killed with two shots—head and heart. Both with the same unique type of bullet.”

Edward nodded. “Disintegrators. I’d love to get my hands on one—see if I can find anything that matches it on the underground market.”

“I have a few samples in my lab. But the breakdown rate is extreme once they enter the body and react with our biological chemicals.” It amazed as much as sickened her to think that someone had created something that could be deadly one moment, then decompose beyond recognition the next. “You’re welcome to come by and look at one, though I don’t know how much good it would do you. I guess that’s the point of making them in the first place—so someone can commit a crime and not leave a trail that can be traced.”

“I intend to follow that trail all the way to the source.” Edward’s gaze zoomed in on hers. “I need you to understand something, Doctor.”

Holly nearly had to hold her breath to keep from looking away from the piercing sensation of those eyes. “Okay?”

“If I have to break the law to do this, I am going to find out who killed my father.”

There was no question that he meant every dramatic word. “You’d give up your badge?”

He braced his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers together at his scarred-up chin and leaned forward, eating up the space in the booth. “I don’t know how much my badge is worth anymore since it got my wife and daughter killed. But I know what justice is worth.” A chill of destiny—or maybe doom—washed over her, raising a sea of goose bumps across her skin. “If you don’t want to help me, I understand. I don’t want to jeopardize anyone’s career but my own—not my brothers’, not yours.” Holly couldn’t help it, she crossed her arms in front of her and tried to hug some warmth into her body. “But I owe this to my dad. I intend to do whatever it takes to put an end to Z Group and to prove who killed him.”

It still stuck in Holly’s craw that someone—most likely from Z Group—had hacked into her computer files and deleted key elements of reports relating to the murders of John Kincaid and others. She was always thorough, always precise. But now there were gaping holes in her work. Court orders, exhumation of bodies and second autopsies would allow her to replace most of that missing information—if the bodies hadn’t degraded and embalming hadn’t altered lingering evidence. But unless there was a new lead on a case, KCPD and the D.A.’s office hadn’t been inclined to budget the expense or put the victims’ families through any more pain or false hopes. She’d love the chance to make things right, to stamp a Closed on every corrupted investigation file. Reclaiming the accuracy of her work was a gut-deep need that could put professional and personal frustrations and insecurities to rest.

But to skip protocols or break the law to find her own satisfaction or personal vindication?

“Are you asking me to do something illegal for you?”

His steely eyes didn’t blink. “I’m asking you to turn the other way if I

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