Christmas Crime in Colorado

“Why are you telling me this?” The ambulance siren was right outside the door. The emergency lights flashed against the walls of the living room.

“You were juror number four,” he said. “The first three people on that jury list are dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone is killing off the jurors who convicted Robby Lee. You’re the next name on that list.”

As his words sank into her consciousness, the fight seemed to drain from her body. Her blue eyes widened. “You’re talking about a serial killer.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s coming after me?”

“I’m sorry, Brooke.” He loosened his grip on her arms, putting his right hand on her shoulder.

She wrenched free. “Why do you care? This is my life. I’ll take care of myself.”

As she turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs, he gave her points for spirit and guts. But she was way out of her league.

It was up to him to make sure she stayed alive.

BROOKE HUDDLED in the backseat of Deputy George McGraw’s spotless SUV. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around a mug of herbal tea that had gone cold as she stared at her house. So much for a safe haven. As Michael had so calmly pointed out, her A-frame was a crime scene.

She rubbed at her bare wrist, wishing that she’d worn her watch when she left the house this morning. The gold Cartier with the cream-colored face had been taken away with Sally’s body in an ominously silent ambulance. Brooke had no idea how much time had passed since the police arrived. It seemed like only minutes, but it must have been longer—much longer. So much had happened. Deputy McGraw had taken her statement. Official vehicles had arrived and departed. Right now, there were several officers tromping up and down the steep hills and forest surrounding her house, waving flashlights and snapping photographs.

Her jaw clenched as she watched. She wanted them all to leave. Her preferred method for coping with stress was to hide away by herself and find something to keep her hands busy. Her fingers itched to do something useful. Busywork. Instead of sitting here, mired in worry, she wanted to start cleaning. She’d scrub every surface in the house, wash her roommate’s dirty dishes, pack up her belongings and send them to…where? She drew a blank, unable to recall if Sally had ever mentioned where she came from, or her parents’ address, or even if she had brothers and sisters.

Sadness welled up inside her. Her roommate had lived in the moment with the volume cranked up high. For Sally, every word was a song. Every step, a dance. She partied all night and still had enough energy to go hiking at dawn. But that was all Brooke really knew about her.

As Brooke stared toward the house, her vision blurred with rising tears. She should have paid more attention to Sally, should have appreciated her exuberant appetite for life instead of complaining about the noise.

Outside the back door that led to her kitchen, she saw Deputy McGraw conferring with Michael, who had been readily accepted by the local officers as soon as he showed his badge. He glanced toward her with his cool jade eyes, his thumb hitched in the pocket of his jeans next to the holster on his belt.

She was still angry about their confrontation outside her bedroom. He’d knocked the knife from her hands, grabbed her arms without permission; she’d be well within her rights to charge him with assault.

But she hadn’t been harmed. And he’d touched her with strength, not cruelty. Instinctively, she knew he didn’t want to hurt her. He was there to help. When he’d forced her to listen to him, she saw the worry in his expression—a deep and abiding concern for her safety. For an instant, she’d wanted to accept his protection and take shelter in his arms.

Then sanity had returned. She didn’t know anything about this guy and didn’t want to believe his story about someone killing jurors from that trial three years ago. It didn’t make sense. If there really was such a serial killer, the FBI would investigate, wouldn’t they?

She’d be nuts to trust this good-looking cop from Alabama. The fact that Michael had come all the way across the country to warn her was decidedly strange. Why hadn’t he just picked up the phone and called? Now that he’d delivered the information, what did he intend to do?

The car door opened, and Deputy McGraw climbed inside. A huge, barrel-chested man with a walrus mustache, he took up a lot of space as he settled on the backseat beside her and closed the door.

“How are you holding up, Brooke?”

“I have some questions.” She forced herself to stay calm, kept all the turmoil hidden inside.

“Maybe I can give you some answers,” McGraw rumbled in a deep, gravelly voice. “Go ahead and ask.”

“When I first saw Sally, I thought she might be…” She pushed the thought away before a clear memory could take shape. “Was there anything I could have done?”

“According to the coroner, her neck snapped and she died immediately. You couldn’t have saved her.”

Not unless I’d been here. Not unless I’d been more understanding, more protective. “Was it suicide?”

“Did she seem depressed? Nervous?”

She shook her head. “Did you know Sally?”

“Gave her a speeding ticket once. She was a real live wire. Maybe a little bit of a party girl.” Though he growled, like rocks in a tumbler, there was no animosity in his tone. “Did Sally Klinger have a lot of boyfriends?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Anybody special?”

She concentrated, remembering a parade of tanned, outdoorsy young men. “There was one. Streaky blond hair. A tattoo of a lightning bolt on his wrist. Tyler?”

“Tyler Hennessey? The X Games snowboarder?”

“That sounds right. Sally was teaching snowboarding at the ski school.” She’d suggested that Brooke try snowboarding in addition to her beginner skiing lessons. Joking, Sally had promised to show her the “ups and downs” of snowboarding. “Why would she kill herself? She seemed to love her life here.”

“You knew her better than I did.”

“We didn’t really get along, to be honest,” Brooke said.

There was no point in sugarcoating their relationship. Just this afternoon, she’d been complaining about her roommate to Hannah Lewis, the owner of the boutique where she worked. Guiltily, Brooke remembered saying that she could just kill Sally.

The deputy cleared his throat. “Did your roommate ever mention her husband?”

Brooke gasped. “Sally was married?”

“I’m guessing they’re separated. His residence is Denver, but we haven’t been able to reach him.”

The fact that Sally had a husband made it seem possible that she’d been murdered as part of a love triangle. A jealous husband might want revenge on his wayward wife. “You never answered my question about suicide.”

“I won’t have a definite answer until after we’ve done a bit more investigating.” The big man settled back in his seat and exhaled, frowning. Beneath his mustache, he frowned. “Looks like suicide. She could’ve slung the rope around her neck and jumped.”

Not something Brooke wanted to think about. She suppressed a shudder.

“But I’m not so sure,” McGraw said. “For one thing, she didn’t leave a note. For another, there’s your statement.You said you might have seen a man outside the sliding glass doors.”

“He didn’t speak.” On that point, she was clear. “Did you find footprints on the deck?”

“Sorry, Brooke. This snow is half mush and half ice. If we’d had a nice coat of new snow, we would have had a better shot at corroborating your story. Tell me about the guy again.”

“He seemed to be wearing black. I thought he started to open the sliding glass doors.” She hated to think of herself so caught up in a delusion that she’d threatened the air with an axe. “I wish I could give you a better description. I was scared.”

“You must have been relieved when Detective Shaw turned up. He seems like a decent guy.”

“Has he told you about the serial killer?”

The deputy nodded. “Heck of a thing.”

It seemed that Deputy McGraw believed Michael’s story. Of course, he would. Lawmen always stuck together as a matter of professional courtesy. When she’d taken out a restraining order against her ex-husband—a district attorney—the police didn’t believe her. They stood behind Thomas in a solid blue wall and made her feel like a nutcase.

Irritated, she said, “I thought the FBI handled serial killer investigations.”

“That’s right. I put in a call to the Denver office.”

“Why?”

“We need to consider all the possibilities. Let’s just suppose that Michael’s theory is right on target. A killer coming after you might have mistakenly attacked Sally. You two gals look enough alike to be sisters.”

Brooke closed her eyes. Had Sally died in her place? Was Sally’s death her fault? Her shoulders slumped, weighed down beneath a mantle of guilt.

“Are you okay?” McGraw asked.

No. I’ll never be okay again. She couldn’t allow herself to believe that she was responsible for Sally’s death. She had to stay in control. In a small voice, she said, “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been through a lot tonight. Suicide is bad enough. But murder?” He shook his head. “Heck of a thing.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“We’re treating this investigation like a homicide. That’s why there’s a swarm of officers up here, taking fingerprints and photos, marking off anything that might be evidence.”

She looked through the windshield at the officers, all busy with different tasks. She imagined them upstairs in her bedroom, pawing through her drawers, looking over her personal things. “When can I get back into my house?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “Is there somebody you can stay with? You work for Hannah Lewis, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you can stay with Hannah. I’m sure she’s got an extra room.”

“I’ll be fine.” Brooke suddenly felt desperate to get away from all the flashing lights and crackling radios. “Is it all right if I leave now?”

“I’ll have one of my men bring your backpack. Is there anything else you want from the house?”

Everything. An outfit to wear tomorrow. A nightgown. My lotion. But she couldn’t stand the idea of strangers retrieving her belongings for her. “I’m okay.”

“I’ll need to get in touch with you tomorrow, Brooke.”

“It’s a work day.” During the many traumatic twists and turns that marked the long months of her separation from Thomas and her devastating divorce, she’d always found solace in returning to her job, in keeping busy. “I’ll be at the boutique.”

A few minutes later, she was behind the steering wheel of her car with her backpack on the passenger seat beside her. It took some maneuvering for all the police and emergency vehicles to clear a path, but she managed to get past them. She made the tight turn onto the snow-packed road that led down the side of the cliff.

She was glad to leave it all behind her, but she couldn’t relax. Her lungs were still clenched. Tension gripped the muscles in her back and neck.

The fear that she’d fought so hard to control returned to haunt her. She hated feeling like a coward—it made her feel weak and out of control.

Usually, the cool silence of the night would have soothed her. In the few months that she’d been in Colorado, she’d reveled in peaceful solitude.

But that was before danger had found her. The tension inside her built. Her gloved fingers tightened on the steering wheel. She couldn’t get the image of Sally out of her mind. “It’s wrong. So wrong,” she muttered.

She pulled up at the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. She needed to vent—to express her fear and, in so doing, loosen its hold.

Keeping her hands on the steering wheel, she yelled in protest. It was a battle cry—loud and guttural, wrenched from deep inside her. Then she yelled again. Screaming in the car was something that psychos did, but she had to let it out, had to find release in her fight against the invisible demon of fear. “I am a good person. I deserve a normal, quiet life. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”

The night answered her with overwhelming silence. For a moment, her fear seemed almost insignificant as she looked through the windshield at the massive mountains and the moonlight glistening on the snow. The pine trees watched like sentinels.

Her breath began to come more easily.

Turning left, she drove cautiously on the curving road that bordered Squirrel Creek as she considered the practical problem of where to stay tonight. During ski season, even the cheapest accommodations in Aspen were too expensive for her budget, and just about every place was fully booked anyway. She glanced down to check her gas gauge. She had enough to drive to Glenwood Springs, where it was likely she’d find an affordable place to stay.

She actually didn’t want to be in Aspen. The last thing she needed was to run into someone she knew—or worse, someone who knew Sally. Though Aspen was a worldclass resort, there was a small-town feeling among the local merchants, hotel staff and those who worked in the ski industry. Everybody was into everybody else’s business.

She turned left onto the shortcut to Glenwood, a twolane road with snow piled up on both sides. The clock on her dashboard showed that it was after ten o’clock. Most people were either home in bed or propped up on a bar stool in their favorite tavern.

Headlights in her rearview mirror caught her attention. They seemed to be approaching too fast. The bright high beams came closer. Like two shining eyes, glaring.

The muscles in her leg tightened as she pressed down on the accelerator. In seconds, the speedometer read fiftyfive, which wasn’t an unreasonable speed for this straight road across an open meadow—unless she hit an icy patch.

The vehicle behind her matched her pace, staying a few lengths behind. Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the road ahead. There were no houses close to the road. No ready escape.

Her usually reliable Jeep station wagon jostled and jolted. She felt a clunk. A fierce vibration rattled the frame.

A flat tire.

The steering wheel jerked in her hands. She had to slow down. There was no other choice.

She wanted to believe that the driver of that truck meant her no harm, that the hate-filled face she’d seen at the house was only an illusion, that Michael’s story about a serial killer was crazy.

But if she was wrong…she was a dead woman.

Chapter Three

Breathing hard, Brooke pulled over at a wide spot in the road, parking next to a pile of snow left behind by the plow. Dread crashed over her. Panic came roaring back with the force of an avalanche.

She watched as the truck that had been behind her swept past. Just that quickly, the other vehicle was gone.

The truck hadn’t been following her. She was safe. Throwing off her seat belt, she took a deep breath and waited for the panic to subside. Now all she had to do was deal with a flat, find a place to stay and hang on to her sanity.

The shortcut to Glenwood Springs wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere—but close enough. The nearest house lights appeared to be at least a mile away. She could hike there, but she hesitated to leave the safety of her car. Walking through the night, she’d be vulnerable.

Another set of headlights shone through the windshield. Was he coming back? She squinted through the night. The lights were too low to be a truck. It was a different vehicle, maybe someone who could help her. People who lived in the mountains tended to be understanding about car problems. She might be able to flag them down.

The headlights came closer. Her fingers closed around the door handle. If she jumped out and waved, the other car would surely stop. Ask for help. Get yourself out of this mess.

She withdrew her hand, unwilling to play the role of a helpless Southern belle. In her experience, it wasn’t smart to depend on the kindness of strangers.

The car zoomed past without slowing.

Being alone was good. She could take care of herself. She could change the tire…or at least call someone who could. Handling the situation by herself would help her reclaim control of her life. A false claim, for sure. She had no control. Zero.

She pounded her fist on the steering wheel. Her house was a crime scene. Her roommate was dead. And she was the target of a serial killer. No reason to fall apart, right? Be rational. Focus on the present.

Her first consideration was the flat tire. She’d bought these tires only a few weeks ago because they were guaranteed to do well in snow, and she’d been driving on them long enough that she didn’t think they were defective. How had she gotten a flat? Had someone sabotaged her tire?

Another car approached. Instead of passing, it slowed and parked behind her. Coming to help? Or coming to hurt her?

Frantically, she cranked the ignition. Even if it meant driving on the rim, she had to escape.

Someone tapped on the glass. She looked up and saw Michael outside her window. “Let’s go, Brooke.”

She didn’t want his help. She rolled down her window. “I have a flat.”

His hand rested on the butt of his gun as he stared down the road. Then he leaned down to her level. “Somebody disabled your vehicle. They wanted you stranded. Get out of the car, and come with me.”

Only seconds ago, she’d considered the same conclusion. Her flat tire wasn’t a coincidence. Neither was the fact that Michael was here. “Did you follow me?”

“Damn right.”

She hated to have him hovering around like some sort of aggravating guardian angel, but it would be silly not to take advantage of his presence. She opened the car door and grabbed her backpack. “I’d appreciate a ride into town. I can get one of the guys from the gas station to come fix the flat.”

“Sure.” He grasped her arm and guided her toward his sedan.

“I can walk on my own, Michael.”

“Then you’d best walk fast,” he said. “No point in standing here like a target.”

“No point at all,” she agreed.

She ran to the passenger side of his SUV and climbed inside. Michael hit the gas, and they zoomed away. He kept checking his mirrors, alert to any approaching threat.

In spite of the snow and icy spots, they shot down the road, fast but controlled. She liked the way he drove, his hands strong and confident on the wheel. With satisfaction, she noticed that he was wearing the black leather gloves he’d bought on her recommendation. Like everything in the boutique, the gloves were very expensive, and she’d been a bit surprised that a cop from Birmingham could afford the exorbitant price.

“My best guess,” he said, “is that the killer punched a hole in your tire, causing a slow leak.”

“When could he have done that?”

“Right after you arrived at your house. Or maybe he waited until later and shot a bullet into the tire. There was a lot of confusion.”

“I didn’t hear gunfire.”

“Silencer,” he said. “He could have done it when you pulled up at the stop sign. You sat there for a good, long while. I could see your tail lights when I was trying to get out of the driveway.”

Though he was talking about a serial killer with a gun, she felt the band of tension squeezing her lungs begin to loosen. Breathing came more easily. In the warm interior of his car, she relaxed. The questions she should have been asking about why he’d come after her and what he wanted from her seemed unimportant. For the moment, she felt safe.

He stopped at an intersection. No headlights were visible in any direction. “I think we’re good,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror.

She gazed at him, taking in his high forehead, deep-set eyes and firm jaw. He had that deceptively lazy look that she thought of as Southern and sultry.

She leaned back against the seat, aware of the bonedeep weariness that came in the aftermath of danger. What she needed right now was to sleep, to curl up in a ball and go completely unconscious. But there was more to do tonight, and she needed to get organized. “If you take a right here and drive for a couple of miles to Lander’s Crossing, then another right, we’ll be headed back toward Aspen.”

“Got it.” He drove for a moment in silence, then he said, “We need to talk about a few things, Brooke.”

She held up her hand, forestalling any more warnings. “Not about your serial killer. I’ve had enough for today.”

“You need to know what to expect. I’m not just whistling Dixie. This killer is real.”

“Then why didn’t the FBI contact me?”

“Good question. And I have a real good explanation,” he drawled. “It all started about a month ago, at the end of October. I got word from Atlanta that Grant Rawlins had been killed. It was an execution-style murder with one bullet through the forehead and another in his heart.”

Grant Rawlins. His name brought back memories of the trial. Locked up in a bland room in the Atlanta courthouse, their deliberations lasted a whole day. She remembered being tired, watching the afternoon sun pouring through the windows and fading to dusk, knowing that they would have to return the next day to finalize their verdict.

At that time, three years ago, her marriage had already sprung a leak. Thomas had been with another woman, but he’d broken off the affair. She’d forgiven him, confident that they could get their marriage back on course. His career was beginning to take off, and she’d been proud to be his wife.

Back then she’d been a solidly married woman who would never dream of being unfaithful. Still, she couldn’t help noticing Grant Rawlins—a dark, handsome man with a subtle charisma. He moved athletically in spite of his prosthetic leg. “We elected Grant to be foreman of the jury.”

“He was a leader,” Michael said proudly. “We served together in the Marines.”

“He told me he lost his leg in the service,” she said.

“And saved my life.” His jaw tensed. “Grant was a true hero. And I want justice for his murder.”

She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to continue the discussion but intrigued by Michael’s story. “Surely there was an investigation.”

“The Atlanta PD did a decent job. They were the ones who made the link to the jury that convicted Robby Lee Warren. When he got killed in prison, there were plenty of people screaming for revenge. Robby Lee’s three brothers. His father. And the thugs he ran with.”

“But nobody was arrested for Grant’s murder?”

“Not enough evidence. Too many alibis.” He took the turn that lead toward Aspen. “The case went cold, but I couldn’t put the murder behind me. I kept seeing Grant, lying in his coffin with his Purple Heart ribbon pinned to his lapel. So I took a six-month leave of absence from my job to focus all my efforts on finding his killer.”

Michael’s loyalty was fierce—she understood his need to solve this crime. “You said there were other deaths.”

“Juror number two died in what looked like a car accident. I tried to make the case that Grant’s murderer had set up the accident, but the two murders were so different that they didn’t fit FBI profiles.”

“And the third juror?”

“Disappeared. The body hasn’t been found.” He gave her a long look. “That’s why I’m here with you. I owe it to Grant to keep you safe.”

Her typical I-can-take-care-of-myself response stuck in her craw. She couldn’t easily dismiss his story, turn her back and walk away. His logic made sense. And his emotional response to his friend’s death rang true.

She believed him.

Accepting Michael’s story affected her in ways that couldn’t be ignored. Ever since she moved to Aspen, she’d been recuperating from her horror-story divorce. The mountains had healed her. She thought she was recovered, but his words awakened her fears. It felt like she’d gone to the doctor with a headache and found out that she had a fatal illness. Michael had pronounced her death sentence.