Hot Blooded

  "They might believe that Annie committed suicide."

  "Then I'll just have to convince them otherwise," he said. "Do you have a direct line to Bentz's desk?"

  "His card's on the refrigerator."

  Ty wasted no time. He walked into the kitchen and punched out the numbers to the New Orleans PD. A few minutes later he'd connected with Bentz and was explaining his theory about Annie's death.

  Meanwhile Sam made coffee. She had to keep busy, to keep going, to push back the demons in her mind that told her she was responsible for Leanne's death.

  Not just Leanne, but others. At least two more women. "John," whoever the hell he was, stalked women, hunted them, killed them.

  Because of you, Sam. Because of some great injustice you inflicted upon him when you didn't help Annie Seger.

  NO WAY! Don't buy into his sick, convoluted thinking. He's twisted, Samantha, twisted. Now, get a grip on yourself and think. Use your brain, use your knowledge. Figure it out. Who is he?

  Stiffening her back, she pulled herself together and, as the coffee perked, she half listened to Ty's conversation, but found a pen in her purse and grabbed a tablet she kept by the phone for messages.

  Who had been in Houston at the time of Annie Seger's death?

  She started with herself and just wrote the names as they came to her: George Hannah, Eleanor Cavalier, Jason Faraday, Estelle Faraday, Kent Seger, Prissy McQueen, Ryan Zimmerman, David Ross, and Ty Wheeler. And Peter Matheson… Don't forget that your dear, disappearing brother might have been in town. Inwardly she winced. Not Pete—please, not Pete. She put a question mark by Peter's name, then crossed out all the women—they could be accomplices, true, but not the actual murderer. From Ty's notes she knew that Jason Faraday and Kent Seger had O positive blood. So did Pete. She didn't know about Ty, or George Hannah, or David, but she crossed Ty's name off the list. He wasn't the killer. Nor was her brother. Pete had never met Annie Seger.

  How do you know, Sam? You haven't seen him in years. You didn't know he was in Houston, did you?

  She wasn't even sure he'd been there… no, not Pete… memories of the dark-haired brother who had taken delight in besting her, outracing her on bicycles, outswimming her when they went to Lake Shasta, outskiing her when their parents had hauled them to the mountains… she remembered his easy smile, mischievous green eyes, so like hers, and the way he always enjoyed beating her at every game, until he'd slid into a world dominated by cocaine and crack and any other drugs that offered a quick buzz, a new high.

  Just like Ryan Zimmerman.

  But Pete would never…

  She left his name on the list just as she heard Ty hanging up.

  "What did he say?" she asked, still staring at her notes.

  "To keep my nose clean, basically. I don't think he trusts me."

  "I don't think he trusts anyone."

  "Comes with the territory." Ty stared over her shoulder and read her notes. "Narrowing the field?"

  "Trying."

  "Same thing the cops are doing." Leaning over her back, so that his chest brushed her shoulders, he stretched his arm toward the table and pointed to his name. "Why did you strike me off the list?"

  "Because you couldn't…wouldn't do it." With a final sputter and the ding of a soft bell, the coffee announced it was ready. Sam ignored it.

  "That's true, but you're basing your choice on emotion rather than fact," Ty pointed out.

  "You want me to put you back on the list?"

  "I just want you to think clearly." Straightening, he scrounged in her cupboard and eventually pulled out two mismatched mugs.

  "What about 'gut instinct'? Isn't that what you cops call it?" She tossed down the pen. She didn't have enough information on any of these people to make a stab in the dark, much less an educated guess as to their guilt or innocence.

  "I'm not a cop, not anymore, and I consider gut instinct, the way I think about feminine intuition. It has its place," he said, pouring them each a cup and placing a chipped mug she'd gotten from her mother years ago on the table in front of Sam.

  "Thanks." Staring at the list of possible suspects, she sipped the coffee, but found it didn't start to warm the chill deep inside her. Nothing could. Not until the monster was caught.

  She stared at the tablet's lined page. One of the men on her list was the killer. She was sure of it. But who? George Hannah? Nah—killing would be too messy; he wouldn't mess up one of his Armani suits.

  Remember—the killer calls on line two; he must be associated with the station. You might not know George as well as you think.

  She went to another name. Ryan Zimmerman? What did she know about Annie's boyfriend—only that he was an athlete who had spiraled down into the drug scene and eventually pulled himself together?

  Kent Seger? Another mystery, but a boy with a history of depression and mental problems after his sister's death. She made a note to call Our Lady Of Mercy again.

  What about Jason Faraday—the stepfather who left the family and remarried quickly? What was his story? She tapped her finger near his name.

  "Mark him off," Ty said, as if reading her mind. "The killer had to have left fingerprints behind. Jason Faraday was in the army, did a hitch in Vietnam. If he were the guy, the police and the FBI would already have arrested him."

  She crossed out Annie's stepfather.

  "I, too, was fingerprinted," he added, "which is why you should have struck my name. Not because of any emotional attachment."

  "Details, details," she said, but the joke fell flat. They were both too tired, too mentally exhausted for levity. She leaned back in her chair and wearily pushed her hair from her eyes, felt the drizzle of sweat on her scalp. How could she be so hot on the outside and cold as death deep in her soul?

  "Come on, let's go to my place," Ty said. "You need to rest."

  "I can't leave. John might call back again. I have to be here."

  "Or he might show up," Ty reminded her. "I'd feel better if you packed a bag and stayed with me. He obviously got in once before. Maybe more often, you don't know, but somehow the Jaquillard girl ended up in your lingerie. Someone took it from the house, Sam. He comes and goes at will."

  "We left the door unlocked," she reminded him. "That's when it happened, and it's safe now. I've got the alarm system, the police are outside and the phone lines are tapped. Any calls will be traced. Besides, don't you have your friend, that private investigator lurking around?"

  "Andre, yes, but—"

  "Don't argue. I think John will call here again, Ty, and I hope he does. This time the police will trace his call, this time I'll be ready."

  Ty's eyebrows pulled together. He obviously wasn't convinced. "What if John decides to pay you a personal visit?"

  "I thought I just said the place was staked out."

  "That's not a guarantee that he can't slip by. You know, he's literally gotten away with murder so far."

  "I know, but…" she said turning her head coyly and touching the buttons on his shirt. "I was hoping you and Sasquatch would stay with me. Bodyguard and alarm dog."

  "So now you're pulling out the feminine wiles arsenal?"

  "I'm just trying to convince you," she said, stung that he'd seen through her ploy. Then again, she'd been foolish to use it. "I just want to be here, okay?" He frowned darkly and seemed about to argue again, but she placed a finger to his lips, shushing him.

  "Please, Ty, we've got to do everything we can to catch this creep. Before he hurts someone else."

  "That's what I'm trying to prevent," he said, "because I'm afraid you're the next target."

  "Then stay with me."

  "All right, but if there's the hint of trouble, we're outta here."

  "It's a deal."

  Frowning, he finished his coffee in one gulp. "Let's go down to my house. We'll pick up the dog and a change of clothes and then, if you're so damned hell-bent on spending the night here, we'll come back."

  "I am," she said, slipping into a pair of
flip-flops and carrying the mugs to the sink. She set the alarm, locked the door and followed Ty to his car.

  The night was dark and humid, clouds blocking the moon. Insects hovered near the porch light and crawled on the windows. Along the street a few neighboring houselights burned and through open windows came the muted sounds of televisions, dishwashers, music or conversation. She wondered if she'd ever feel safe here again, would ever open her windows and let in the breath of wind, listen to the sounds of crickets, or would she forever be paralyzed, locked up tight.

  Don't let John do this to you, she warned herself, don't let him win. Find the bastard.

  Several cars were parked along the street, some she recognized, others she didn't.

  Ty must've noticed her checking out the vehicles. "The second one on the left. That's the unmarked," Ty said. "Your private bodyguards."

  "You can tell?"

  "I was a cop, remember?"

  "Yeah," she said, climbing into the Volvo and slamming the passenger door shut, "but the truth of the matter is that's about all I do know about you. The rest is pretty vague."

  He flashed her a disarming smile as he eased the car around her circular drive and nosed onto the street. "Hey, I'm an open book. What do you want to know?"

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought, fiddling with the strap of her seat belt. "First off, I assume there is no Mrs. Wheeler?"

  "Just my mother. Lives in San Antonio. A widow."

  From the sideview mirror, Sam saw the unmarked pull into the street. Headlights flashed on.

  "Not too subtle, are they?" Ty glanced in the rearview mirror. "I was married a long time ago. High-school sweetheart who didn't like being married to a policeman. We were divorced before we had kids, and I've never seen the need to walk down the aisle again."

  "What about girlfriends?"

  "One in every port," he teased, then sobered, the dash lights reflecting in his eyes. "I really haven't had the time. Anything else you want to know?"

  "Probably, but I'll worry about it later."

  Cranking the wheel, he turned into his driveway, then pulled the keys from the ignition and cut the engine. Sam reached for the door handle, but he grabbed her arm, stalling her. "Look, Samantha, I know we haven't known each other all that long, and I'll admit that my reasons for meeting you weren't on the level. I lied to you, and we both know it. It was a mistake, believe me. I just never intended to get involved with you. But I'm not hiding anything, all right? There's no deep, dark secret I'm keeping from you. If I had this all to do over again, hell, I would have been straight with you from the beginning, but that's not the way it worked out." He pulled her close and dropped a chaste kiss on her lips. His breath was warm against her face. "Trust me, darlin', okay? I'll do anything to get you out of this mess. Anything." He traced the line of her jaw with a finger, then let his hand drop. "I feel like it's my fault this is all happening to you, to the other women." Pain crossed his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth. Cords stood out in the back of his neck. "I swear to you… I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. I mean it. Just… have a little faith."

  Her throat closed as she stared into his night-darkened eyes. He seemed so sincere, so determined. So guilt-riddled. "I do," she said, but stopped herself from admitting more, that she was afraid she was falling in love with him, because it was foolish. The words would have sounded silly and trite, and the truth of the matter was, she couldn't trust her own emotions.

  Headlights flashed as the unmarked drove slowly past. "I think we'd better get going," Ty said as he released her.

  Together they walked into his house and it seemed to Sam like eons since she'd stormed out the other night, angry with him for lying to her. Oh, Lord, so much had happened since then and yet it had only been a few days ago.

  A few days ago when Leanne had still been alive.

  Heart heavy, she followed him to his loft and dropped onto a corner of his bed as he threw a change of clothes and shaving gear into an athletic bag. Thoughts of Leanne Jaquillard darkened her mind. If only she could have helped. If only she'd returned Leanne's calls earlier. If only… oh, Lord, she couldn't keep doing this. Hands clasped between her knees, she stared at the carpeting and felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. "I feel like that if I would have talked to her, if she and I had met somewhere, this could have been prevented," she said.

  Ty caught her reflection in the mirror over his dresser.

  "John… He told me that he'd made a sacrifice for me. He killed her… because of me… and… she'd tried to reach me and I wasn't there for her."

  Ty zipped the bag, then dropped to a knee in front of her. With a finger, he lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to his. "You don't know that. Chances are you both would be dead right now. Come on, Samantha, don't do this to yourself. It's a terrible tragedy, God knows, but don't blame yourself."

  "You're a great one to talk. Didn't you just take a serious guilt trip when we were in the driveway?"

  "But I pulled out of it."

  Tears filled Sam's eyes all over again. "She was killed because she knew me. If she hadn't…"

  "Don't go there, Samantha, please," he said softly. "What we have to do now, you and I, is get the guy. It's what Leanne would want."

  "It's what anyone would want."

  Blinking, she pulled every ounce of gumption she could find deep within. "You're right," she said with renewed conviction. "Let's go get him."

  "Oh, we will," Ty promised as he reached into a top dresser drawer and pulled out a pistol.

  Every muscle in Sam's body went instantly rigid. "A gun? You've got a gun?"

  "I thought we'd established that I was with the Houston police? Don't worry, I've got a license. It's legal." He found a clip on a shelf in his closet and snapped it in place. Flipping on the safety, he slid the pistol into a shoulder holster, strapped it in place and whipped on a jacket. "Just in case."

  "I don't like guns, not any kind of guns," she argued.

  "And I don't like men who kill women to get their jollies. If anyone tries to harm you, they're gonna be sorry." She thought he was teasing, trying to lift her spirits, but she caught the hard glint in his eye and knew he was serious. Dead serious.

  So if this guy's "the one" as you told Sam, then why is he so elusive? Melanie asked herself as she dialed her boyfriend's number and leaned back in her bathtub. It was the middle of the night. So why wouldn't he be home?

  Maybe he just turned off his cell so that he wouldn't be awakened at hours like this.

  Or he might be with another woman.

  That thought was like a knife twisting in her chest.

  God, Mel, you've got it bad.

  As she watched a drop of water hang on the faucet, she waited, knew he wouldn't answer and that she'd leave her third message on his cell phone. What was it about him that she found so darkly irresistible?

  "Leave a message," the recorded message advised her.

  "Hi, this is Melanie again. Just wondering what you were up to." She tried to keep her voice light, but inside she felt like an idiot. She was chasing him, just as she had a dozen other good-looking guys who'd mistreated her in the past. There was something wrong with her—she didn't have to have studied psychology to recognize that she always went for the wrong type—but still, she couldn't seem to break herself of the habit. "An addict," she told herself as she set the handheld on the counter and closed her eyes. She'd added bath crystals and drew in the scent of their fragrance as steam rose toward the ceiling. "You're a love slave. Just like your mother and your sister." Every woman in her family had endured the thoughtlessness of the men. Her mother had been married half a dozen times and never found happiness, her sister was still married to the jerk who beat her when he got drunk and she, the independent one, always chased the tall, dark and dangerous ones.

  Things would get better… though. Tomorrow she'd call Trish LaBelle again over at WNAB. She hadn't gotten through yet, but Melanie wasn't giving up. No
t on her boyfriend and not at a better job—either at WSLJ or a rival station.

  It was time to move up in the world. She smiled. Imagined herself behind the microphone hosting Midnight Confessions. The two weeks Samantha had been in Mexico had been the best of Melanie's life… as she'd essentially become Dr. Sam, even spending her late nights in Sam's house. She'd met her boyfriend only a week or so before and they'd really clicked… she remembered how he'd loved her in Sam's big bed and even now she quivered with anticipation.

  Yes, she thought, slowly lathering her body, things were going to change for the better. Melanie would make it happen. One way or another.

  Rick Bentz stared out the bug-spattered windshield as Montoya ignored the speed limit and flew down the highway.

  "Don't you think it's odd that there are three guys missing?" Bentz asked, drumming his fingers on the armrest. The car was hot and smelled of stale smoke. "All three of them are connected with Annie Seger or Samantha Leeds and they all lived in Houston when Annie died."

  "Everything about this damned case is strange." Montoya had been smoking. He flipped his cigarette butt outside and rolled up the window, giving the air conditioner a chance to cool off the sun-baked interior of the unmarked cruiser.

  They were driving back from White Castle, where they'd talked to Mrs. Ryan Zimmerman, a sharp-tongued woman who had no kind words for her husband.

  "I shoulda listened to my folks and never married him," she'd said in all her self-righteous fury. "He's no good. I don't know what I was thinking. And now he's lost his job. Just didn't show up one day. How's that for irresponsible?"

  She'd sat in the living room of her condominium surrounded by boxes, evidence that either she was moving out or giving Ryan the heave ho.

  "Why are you askin' about him, anyway?"

  When Montoya had explained that he was a "person of interest" in the murder of Leanne Jaquillard, she'd changed her tune and attitude faster than you could blink. "Ryan would never do anything like that. I mean he's big and physical and has a temper, but he's no killer," she'd insisted.

  Montoya had been patient and explained they just wanted to talk to her husband, but Mrs. Ryan Zimmerman decided to clam up and told them to go away. If they wanted to talk to her again, she'd said, she would insist that a lawyer be present.