Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake

He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he didn’t need some kind of help. This latest murder had definitely shaken him up. Not only did he lack the manpower for the kind of investigation these murders required, but he also lacked resources. Mystic Lake was a small town with very little crime, and it had been years since Cole had done the kind of police work that was now required of him.

He probably would have asked for help, but it ticked him off that the mayor hadn’t even discussed the issue with him and instead had just gone behind Cole’s back and then told him he’d called the feds.

As far as Cole was concerned, it had shown a lack of respect, which heated his insides along with the other feeling that fired inside him each time his gaze landed on Amberly Nightsong.

He’d give her the copies of the files of the other murders, and then she’d be on her way back to Kansas City. She wasn’t officially a part of the case. She was just here as a consultant of sorts. She’d read the files, call him with her thoughts, and that would be the end of it.

His hands relaxed on the steering wheel as he turned into the parking lot behind his office. Funny that his lust hormones hadn’t been active for eight long years and now had suddenly decided to awaken for the one woman he wanted absolutely nothing to do with.

She parked beside his car and joined him at the back door of the building. “It should take about twenty minutes or so to get copies of those files ready for you,” he said as he used his key to unlock the back door of the building.

He gestured her into the hallway. A door on the left led to a conference room, a second to a small break room, and to the right was his private office. There was also an interrogation room. Ahead were the reception area and the deputy desks, with the jail in the basement of the building.

He took her into the conference room, where the old wall-size bulletin board was covered with crime photos of the two previous murders. It had become their war room, devoted specifically to the murders since the second one had occurred.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back with copies of the files,” he said.

She nodded absently, already engrossed in the photos on the board.

She was still standing in front of the board when he reentered the room fifteen minutes later. She appeared to be so deep in thought she didn’t hear his return.

He took a brief moment to admire the curve of her butt in her tight jeans, the waist-length braided rope of thick hair that seemed to beg to be released from its binding. He cleared his throat, not liking the drift of his thoughts.

She whirled around to face him. “I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t some sort of a mercy-killing element to these. He killed them and then tried to assure that they would have happy dreams through eternity. Were any of the women sick? Maybe terminally ill?”

“According to the autopsy reports, both Mary Mathis and Gretchen Johnson were in perfect health, and of course we won’t know about Barbara Tillman until George performs the complete autopsy. I should have something from him by midday tomorrow.”

She frowned. “Well, that shoots my potential initial theory right out the window.” She smiled. “But then it isn’t unusual for me to throw out several of my theories before settling on the one that’s right.”

The room was too small and filled with that evocative scent of her. He was suddenly far too focused on her lips, which were covered with a nude, glossy lipstick. He should be thinking about the photos of the victims on the board, not the vibrant, beautiful woman in front of him.

“Here are the files,” he said briskly and thrust them toward her. He wanted her gone, away from him. She unsettled him in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable.

“Thanks. Once I plow through these, I’ll feel like I’m up to speed.”

He gestured her out of the conference room and down the hallway toward the front of the building. When they reached the main area, he introduced her to Linda Scott, who served as receptionist/secretary and dispatcher.

“Where do you send your forensic evidence for analysis?” she asked when they stepped out the front door and into the warm September night.

“We use a lab in Kansas City. We don’t have any facilities here.”

“I could get you access to the FBI lab.”

“That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I’m satisfied with the lab we’re already using.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

“Do you sleep under a dream catcher?” he asked, the personal question leaping from his mouth before he’d actually considered asking.

“My son does. The day he was born my granny Nightsong made him one to hang above his bed. I don’t sleep beneath one.” Her chocolate-brown eyes seemed to grow a tad bit darker. “I need to allow myself to have nightmares. It’s one of the ways I get in touch with people who do things like this.” She held up the files.

“You must have terrible dreams,” he observed.

“Sometimes I do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He watched as she got into her car. He wasn’t surprised that she had a family. A woman as bright as her, as beautiful as her, would have been snapped up by some man as quickly as possible.

As her car disappeared in the distance, he felt a touch of relief that she was definitely off-limits. Not that he was interested, not that he cared.

Cole had locked his heart away eight years ago when he’d lost his wife and every dream he’d ever entertained of being a husband and a father, and he had no intention of ever unlocking it.

If he was lucky he wouldn’t see Agent Amberly Nightsong again. She’d phone in a report to him and that would be the end of her involvement in this case.

He turned on his heels and headed back into the office. He had three murders to solve and didn’t have time to entertain thoughts of a hot-looking, married FBI agent who, for a moment, had stirred emotions long dead inside him…emotions he intended to remain dead for the rest of his life.

Chapter Two

Amberly swigged the last of the coffee in her cup and then got up from her table as she eyed the microwave clock. Almost seven-thirty. She needed to get out of here if she wanted to stop by John’s house and see Max before he left for school.

She grabbed the files that had kept her up most of the night and her purse and then left the house. As she drove the three blocks, she tried to slough off the exhaustion of a night of too little sleep.

These murders in Mystic Lake had already grabbed her by the throat, and she had a feeling they wouldn’t let her go until somebody was behind bars.

She’d always been grateful that she usually had a level of detachment to the cases she worked that made her most effective and allowed her to leave the crime and the crime scene at work, keeping it from bleeding into her personal life.

These crimes felt different already. As she’d gone through the files she’d been unable to maintain that emotional distance that had always made things easier.

Maybe it was because the victims were not much younger than her own thirty years of age. Maybe it was the brutality alongside the beauty of the dream catcher, which was such a part of her heritage.

She shoved all thoughts of the files and the murder victims out of her mind as she pulled into John’s driveway.

For the next few minutes, her thoughts and attention would be solely focused on Max. He greeted her at the front door, dressed for school in a pair of jean shorts and a white-and-red-striped pullover shirt. She fought the impulse to reach out and tamp down the cowlick at the back of his head.

“Mom,” he said in surprise and threw himself into her arms.

Amberly hugged him tight, knowing that all too quickly the day would come when he would think it was uncool for his mommy to hug him. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning,” he said as they finally disengaged from each other.

“I couldn’t start my day without seeing my favorite boy,” she replied. “Where’s your dad?”

“In the kitchen, making French toast. You gonna eat with us?”

“I’m not hungry, but it sure smells good.”

John appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Bacon and French toast, and I’ve got plenty.”

“Thanks, but no. However, I wouldn’t turn down a quick cup of coffee while you two eat.”

He gestured with the pancake turner in his hand. “Come on, then. Max, wash your hands, it’s on the table.”

As Max ran for the bathroom, Amberly followed John into the kitchen. He pointed her to a chair and then poured her a cup of coffee. “You look tired,” he said.

“Late night. There’s a serial murderer working in Mystic Lake, and I’ve been assigned to consult.” She told him no more, having learned early in their marriage that John didn’t want to hear about her work as a profiler.

John was an artist who’d made his name painting Western pictures with a glow of splendor. His world was one of beauty and history, and he’d never wanted her to bring the ugliness of her world inside their home.

At that moment, Max returned to the kitchen and slid into the chair where his breakfast awaited. As he ate, he chattered about the math test his dad had helped him study for the night before, his dream that he was riding in a car and excited about where they were going but being disappointed when he woke up before they’d arrived at their destination. By then it was time for Max to brush his teeth and finish getting ready for school.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Amberly said to John as he walked her to the front door.

“Anytime. So, I’m assuming we’re going to play things by ear when it comes to where Max is staying.”

Amberly nodded. “I just don’t have a good handle right now on where this is all going to lead. My plan right now is to be home by five or so tonight. If you can pick up Max from school, then I’ll try to be here around then to pick him up and take him back to my place for the night.”

John nodded. “Just let me know. You know I love it when he’s here.” There was a slight censure in his voice, as if what he wanted to say was that they all should be together under this roof, still a united family.

“Thanks again, John. I’ll be in touch.” She left, refusing to shoulder the guilt he’d subtly tried to put on her. As much as she would have loved for Max to have a mother and father that were together, the marriage hadn’t worked. She and John should have remained good friends and never crossed the line into intimacy.

As she pulled out of the driveway to head to Mystic Lake her thoughts returned to the files in the seat next to her. One thing was clear after reading the reports and interviews that had been conducted after each murder: Cole Caldwell was good. In fact, he was better than good.

As she made the drive to the small town, she played and replayed the information she’d read the night before. Building a profile of a killer wasn’t an easy task. Not only did the method of kill and the crime scene hold clues to coming up with a working profile, but the victims and their lives usually held clues, as well.

By the time she reached Mystic Lake and found a parking place in front of the sheriff’s office, she was wishing for another cup of coffee to help jolt her into full-performance level.

She was dressed less casually today, clad in a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeved white button-down blouse. She’d been caught off guard yesterday, but today she felt more prepared to look and act the role of FBI consultant.

She entered the office and smiled at the woman Cole had introduced to her the night before. “Hi, Linda, is Sheriff Caldwell in?”

“I’m Lana, Linda’s twin sister. She works nights and I work days. And you are?” She raised one of her dark eyebrows.

“Special Agent Amberly Nightsong.”

“Is Sheriff Caldwell expecting you?” There was an obvious protective tone in her voice.

“I’m not sure if he is or not, but I’m here,” Amberly replied.

“I’ll see if he’s available.” She picked up the phone and swirled her chair so that her back was to Amberly. She whispered for a moment and then whirled back around and hung up the phone. “He’s in his office. You can go on in.”

Amberly walked through the gate that divided the public area from the more private space and headed directly to Cole’s office. She knocked and heard his gruff response. She opened the door to find him seated behind his desk, a scowl doing nothing to detract from his handsomeness.

“I didn’t expect to see you here today,” he said.

“Why not? This is an active case and I intend to be here every day until you have the killer in jail.” She closed the office door and took a seat in the chair across from him. “Granny Nightsong would take a look at your expression right now and say that the grouch bird bit you on your butt while you slept last night.”

He stared at her in surprise. “And Granny Nightsong is…”

“My grandmother. She raised me from the time I was three until she died four years ago.” She’d accomplished what she’d intended: his scowl was gone, at least for the moment.

“That’s right, you mentioned her before.”

“So, what have you learned since I left here yesterday?” she asked.

“I’ve been back to the crime scene to see if anything was missed but found nothing. There is a kill site somewhere, but we have no idea where it might be. My deputies have been pounding the streets interviewing Barbara’s friends and family members. I’ve been going over the interviews as they bring them back to me.”

“Anything specific jump out at you?” she asked.

He shook his head and leaned back in his black leather chair. “Nothing. It’s just like the other two. Method of death was five stab wounds to the chest. According to the coroner who did the autopsy last night, the wounds were made with a six-inch straight blade and were in a downward motion, indicating that the killer was taller than the victims.”

“Probably male,” she replied.

“That’s definitely the path I’m pursuing. Not only is there a height difference that would indicate a male killer, but it also takes a tremendous amount of strength to stab a chest as deeply as these victims were stabbed. She also had Taser marks and was bound at her wrists and ankles at some point before her death.”

“After studying the files, I have a few more thoughts to add to the mix,” she said.

He sat forward. In the small office, she could smell the scent of his cologne, a pleasant woodsy scent that fired her feminine hormones. His eyes were the blue of still waters, deep and fathomless, and his intense stare made her slightly uncomfortable.

“First of all, the killer obviously wants attention. He makes no attempt to hide his kills but rather displays them in public places. If I were you, I’d try to control the information any media outlet is getting. He’ll feed on anything that’s about the murders.”

“I’d already thought about that, but in this day and age, it’s fairly difficult to control the flow of information about anything,” he replied, his frown threatening to return.

“The usual profile is that he’s probably between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He’s probably a Caucasian, although I’ll admit I’m not ruling out that it could be somebody of Native American descent.”

“Is that why you were chosen for this particular assignment?”

She looked at him in surprise. To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t considered it before this moment. “Maybe,” she admitted. “I suppose it makes sense that the director would utilize me if he thought there was any kind of Native American overtones to the crimes.”

“But except for the dream catchers, there aren’t any other overtones,” he replied.

“At least none that we’ve initially seen so far,” she replied and then smiled. “I try to keep all my options open this early in an investigation.” She crossed a leg and leaned forward. “And tell me, Sheriff Cole, you aren’t a local here, right?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your investigative skills are too sharp, your reports too well written for a man who’s spent his entire career in a small town.”

“I grew up here and then left to go to college in St. Louis. Once I graduated, I joined the police force there and within two years had worked myself to detective.”

That made sense, and she patted herself on the back for recognizing that he was more than a small-town sheriff, that he’d had his real training on the mean streets of St. Louis. “So, what brought you back here?” she asked, curious.

His blue eyes deepened in hue, becoming the haunting color of midnight. “I was working a murder case, a triple homicide. The FBI had been called in for some assistance, and of course, once they got involved, they completely took over the case.”

He hesitated a moment and drew in a long, deep breath. “For some reason, the killer focused in on me personally. He managed to kidnap my wife.”

Although his words were delivered in a flat, emotionless tone, Amberly sensed a wealth of pain beneath the words, a pain too great for expression. She felt a tightening in her chest as she recognized his story probably didn’t have a happy ending.

“The killer, Jeb Wilson, held her in an abandoned house for two days. We finally managed to find the place and had it surrounded. I had found a way in through a broken window in the basement, but the FBI refused to let me go in. They had decisions to make, red tape to cut or whatever, and so the rescue process was delayed by twenty minutes. When we finally got inside, my wife was dead, but her body was still warm. She’d been killed within minutes of us getting inside. As far as I’m concerned, the FBI was as responsible for her death as Jeb Wilson.”

DESPITE THE FACT THAT EIGHT long years had passed, the agony of that moment, of finding his wife dead, had never eased, had never lessened. And there had always been a part of him that blamed the FBI agents for not having the capability of moving fast enough when his wife’s life had hung in the balance.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, obviously aware that her words of consolation meant nothing. “You know, we don’t always get it right.”

Surprisingly, these words, the knowledge that she knew the agency she worked for sometimes screwed up, somewhat satisfied him. “Well, I don’t intend to screw up these cases,” he said. “The families of these women have a right to know what happened to them and why.”

“The why isn’t obvious yet,” she said, a tiny frown dancing across the center of her forehead. “I’d like to see the reports and interviews your deputies have gathered together since I left last night. We need to somehow find a common denominator among these women. That would be the first step in identifying a possible motive and suspect. And we need to do it fast. There were four weeks between his first kill and his second and only two weeks between the second and third. We have no idea how quickly his time line is escalating.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said dryly. He got up from his desk, finding the small office stifling with her scent wafting in the air and her presence far too close to his desk. “Why don’t we move to the conference room? Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Absolutely. My belief is you can’t have enough coffee, and you can’t have enough red licorice.” He looked at her in surprise. “Changed the nicotine habit to a licorice habit years ago and have yet to kick the licorice addiction.”

“Personally, I’m a black-licorice kind of guy,” he replied, as if he needed to remind her, assure himself of how different they were.

They stepped out of his office, and as she headed down the hall to the conference room, he went into a break room that held a round table, a minifridge and a coffeepot.

As he poured the coffee into two foam cups, an edge of irritation swept through him. He’d told her too much about himself. He didn’t want her to know his personal information, and he certainly didn’t want to know hers, but he’d spilled his guts to her, and he wasn’t sure why.

He had three murders to solve, and he couldn’t allow his head to get muddied with the evocative scent of her, the intelligent depths of her beautiful eyes.

She had a family, she was here to help him solve murders and not to awaken feelings that had been dead for eight years, feelings he never wanted to experience again.

By the time he walked into the conference room, he felt as if he was once again under control. He placed a cup of coffee in front of her at the table. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I brought some sugar packets along.”

“Black is fine,” she replied. “Did you know the victims personally?”

He took the chair next to hers so they were both looking at the bulletin board. “Mystic Lake is a small town. I know most everyone here personally.”

“Tell me about the victims, information that wasn’t in the official reports. What kind of women were they? What did they like to do in their spare time?”

He knew what she was attempting to do—she was hoping to find a connection between the three women, a connection that might lead them to the killer, a connection he had yet to make.

“First victim, Gretchen Johnson, worked as a bartender at a place at the edge of town called Bledsoe’s. She was tough, had been around the block a few times and lived in an apartment behind the bar. Mary Mathis was a hairdresser at the beauty shop, lived at home with her parents and was dating Craig Brown at the time of her death,” he began. “She liked to gossip, loved to shop and seemed well liked by everyone.”

“Either of the other two victims go to that beauty shop?” she asked.

“According to the owner of the salon, neither Gretchen nor Barbara got their hair done there.”

“So, we can mark that off as a potential connection for the victims.”

He nodded, wishing he’d chosen the other side of the table to sit, where he wouldn’t be so close to her. She wore no wedding ring, although he supposed there were plenty of married women around who didn’t wear a ring.

He frowned and refocused. “I’ve tried to connect their lives, but these three women didn’t know each other well. They didn’t socialize together, they weren’t involved in the same activities and hobbies. Mary was a chatty hairdresser, Barbara was a shy teacher’s aide and Gretchen was a bartender at a rough-and-tumble place on the north edge of town. I can’t find where their lives intersected.”

“If these are just random victims, then it’s going to make our job that much more difficult,” she replied as she stared at the board.

Our job.

She’d already taken half possession of the crime. He tried to be angry about it, but the truth of the matter was he wanted this killer caught before he killed again, and if it took Agent Amberly Nightsong’s help to accomplish that, then he’d accept it. The stakes were too high to get into a territorial dispute.

“They might be random, but they have their approximate ages in common. However, Mary had light brown hair, Gretchen was dark haired and, as you know, Barbara was a blonde. So, at this point, we don’t know that he has a specific type of woman, other than that they were all around the same age.”

She pulled her braid over the front of her shoulder and toyed with the end of it, a gesture he found ridiculously sensual, as he could imagine the spill of that thick, shiny hair across his bare chest.

He jumped out of his chair, nearly upending his cup of coffee in the process. “I need to get out on the streets and check in with some of the townspeople. You’re welcome to stay in here as long as you want.”

“I’d much prefer to go with you,” she said as she also rose from the table. She grabbed her purse, pulled the strap over her shoulder and then looked at him expectantly.

He’d be a total tool to insist she stay here. Besides, he had to stop fighting the fact that, at least for now, she was part of his team.