Darkness fell over Blair like a smothering blanket

This blackout hadn’t been caused by a power failure. The impending danger had caught up with her. Outlined against the walls, she saw a shadow. He was here with her….

Watching. Waiting.

“Who’s there?” she whispered. “Who are you?” Her trembling voice echoed off the tiles, bouncing back at her in desperate mockery of her fear.

She heard the sound of shuffling feet. Where was he? How close? Blair looked up and saw a crouching form, hunched over.

He didn’t even look human.

“What do you want?” Blair asked.

One word. A guttural growl.

“You.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

As we ring in a new year, we have another great month of mystery and suspense coupled with steamy passion.

Here are some juicy highlights from our six-book lineup:

 Julie Miller launches a new series, THE PRECINCT, beginning with Partner-Protector. These books revolve around the rugged Fourth Precinct lawmen of Kansas City whom you first fell in love with in the TAYLOR CLAN series!

 Rocky Mountain Mystery marks the beginning of Cassie Miles’s riveting new trilogy, COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS, about a network of private citizens who volunteer their expertise in solving criminal investigations.

 Those popular TOP SECRET BABIES return to our lineup for the next four months!

 Gothic-inspired tales continue in our spine-tingling ECLIPSE promotion.

And don’t forget to look for Debra Webb’s special Signature Spotlight title this month: Dying To Play.

Hopefully we’ve whetted your appetite for January’s thrilling lineup. And be sure to check back every month to satisfy your craving for outstanding suspense reading.

Enjoy!

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Rocky Mountain Mystery
Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thank you, Patience and Denise

for believing in this series. And, as always, to Rick.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassie Miles lives in Denver in a high-rise, not unlike the apartment described in this book. She also shares the heroine’s fondness for luxurious, high-end chocolate. This is a story close to her heart, and she wouldn’t mind at all if a dashing hero joined her on the balcony to count the stars.

When she’s not writing, Cassie is a movie buff who regularly attends the annual Denver Film Festival where she can overdose on three or four movies a day and ponder the true meaning of Scandinavian subtitled films.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

David Crawford—Haunted by the murder of his sister, he became an investigative journalist, focusing on serial killers.

Dr. Blair Weston—Injuries from a devastating car accident caused her to retire from her position as a medical examiner in the coroner’s office.

Eddy Adderly—Convicted of the Fisherman serial murders and on death row, he is dying from liver cancer.

Jake Zitti—A newspaper photographer and ladies’ man, he was driving the car when Blair was injured.

Ted Hurtado—A newspaper columnist who received the threat notes from the Fisherman.

Adam Briggs—Head of Colorado Crime Consultants.

Molly Griffith—Secretary at Colorado Crime Consultants.

Colorado Crime Consultants (CCC)—A nonprofit organization of private citizens with special skills who are called upon to help solve crimes in the past, present and future.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

David Crawford had been on airplanes since noon—seven hours ago—with nothing to eat but a bag of peanuts. He was tired and hungry. Worse than that, the person who picked him up at the airport was a guy instead of a warm, welcoming, beautiful woman. Even worse, the May weather was rainy, and David couldn’t see the rugged outline of the Rocky Mountains west of town.

But he wasn’t complaining. He settled back in the passenger seat of his friend’s sporty Miata and allowed a wave of nostalgia to wash over him. Home again. Here in Denver, he went to high school, kissed his first girlfriend, bought his first car, got his first job. It was here, in a well-groomed cemetery, that his sister was buried.

The Miata swerved in the rain on the airport road, dodging around an SUV, and David braced his arm against the dashboard. “Slow down, Jake.”

“Don’t want to be late for my date tonight.”

“You’ve already got a new woman lined up?”

“Already?” Jake scoffed. “It’s been ten days since what’s-her-face kicked me out.”

Jake Zitti, a news photographer for The Denver Post, never wasted time regretting relationships gone bad. Each time he was thrown, he dusted himself off and got right back on the horse, so to speak. “I don’t know how you do it,” David said.

“Nothing hard about dating, pal. You ought to give it a try.”

“I date,” David said. “I’m more selective than you are.” A fruit fly was more selective than Jake.

“You’d do well playing the field. The ladies like your type. You’re practically one of the Baldwin brothers with your blue eyes and black hair, which looks to me like it’s getting a little gray around the edges.”

“At least I’ve got hair.” David stared pointedly at his friend’s clean-shaved skull. “This new woman of yours. Is it serious?”

“Why do you care?” Jake asked.

“I want to know when you’re moving your sorry butt out of my guest bedroom.”

“You love it when I’m staying at your town house,” Jake said. “I’m a fun guy.”

David cringed as the Miata plunged forward, throwing up a backwash that splashed as high as the windows. “Yeah, real fun.”

“So, David, how long are you in town this time?”

“It depends.”

David’s job took him all over the country. As an investigative crime reporter, he flew to wherever the breaking news was. It wasn’t a career path he’d consciously planned.

Five years ago, when he was a sports reporter at The Denver Post, the closest he got to criminal activity was reporting on scandals with the local high school football team. Those were the good old days. Lots of skiing. Beer drinking. Hanging out with friends like Jake. Then David’s world turned upside down.

His kid sister, Danielle, became the fourth victim of a serial killer who drowned his victims and left their bodies near water with their feet tied together like a mermaid’s tail. He was nicknamed the Fisherman, and he killed twice more after Danielle.

David hadn’t coped well with the tragedy. Even after the Fisherman was apprehended and convicted, David couldn’t assuage the pain of losing his sister. Instead of following the sports news, he wrote impassioned editorials and columns on victims’ rights and the court system. He was obsessed.

When another serial killer struck in Nevada, he took a leave of absence from his job at The Post and went there. His interviews with witnesses, suspects and cops resulted in a series of articles which he sold to a national magazine. They liked his work and paid his way to the next crime scene in Florida. His reporting on serial killers, mass murderers and unsolved crimes turned into a regular feature, and he developed a reputation, even appearing on television news shows as an expert.

His reporting was respected. He was well paid and highly visible. But not satisfied. Racing from one brutal crime scene to the next, he never found the answers that would ease his own uncompromising grief and rage. How could such violence happen? Why? And why to Danielle?

To Jake he said, “Actually, I’m planning to stay in Denver for a while.”

“Yeah? Is this a story I ought to know about?”

“Old news. The Fisherman.”

Jake frowned. “Why rake up the past?”

“Because he’s dying.” The convicted murderer of David’s sister had liver cancer. He was dying in prison where he waited for the process of appeals on his death sentence. “And I need to know the truth. What if it wasn’t him?”

“He confessed,” Jake said. “His DNA was found on the last victim.”

“But not on my sister.”

“You’re wasting your time. The cops are never going to reopen that investigation.”

“I’m not going through the police.” A week ago David had contacted Colorado Crime Consultants, a nonprofit network of private citizens who used their skills to investigate crime. CCC’s experts included entomologists, doctors, lawyers, chemists and psychologists who volunteered their time to find the truth. They’d agreed to look into the Fisherman serial murders.

Jake’s cell phone played the opening notes to “You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling,” and he answered. As he engaged in a loud, one-sided conversation, the Miata careered wildly along I-70, and David couldn’t help remembering that Jake already had one near-death driving accident.

David snapped, “Watch the road.”

“The road’s not going anywhere.” The Miata swooped toward the exit ramp. “That call was from the city desk. I need to make a stop to take some photos. Do you mind?”

“Hell, yes. I’m starving.”

“Too bad. There is a crime scene at City Park and we happen to be five minutes away.” If anyone else had been driving, they’d have been fifteen minutes away. “It’s a woman. Her body’s near the lake.”

Found near water. Like the victims of the Fisherman. David’s hunger pangs tightened into a hard knot in his gut.

Inside City Park, the Miata squealed to a stop. Jake leaped from the car and grabbed his camera equipment from the trunk.

Stepping out into the fading drizzle, David turned up his collar. A sense of foreboding weighted his stride through the wet grass. Though he’d been to dozens of crime scenes, he’d never gotten accustomed to the horror. In every victim, he saw his sister.

Halogen police lights illuminated the area near the lake, turning dusk into harsh daylight. Yellow crime-scene tape draped over leafy shrubs. The hum of tense conversation mingled with static from police radios.

David slipped around the edge of the police cordon where uniforms and other forensic investigators converged on the body. He caught a glimpse of her delicate white feet, tied with cord at the ankles.

Impotent rage crashed against his forehead with the impact of a jackhammer. This couldn’t be happening again. His muscles clenched. Please, God, not again.

SWIMMING LAPS was a form of therapeutic exercise for Blair Weston. In the accident, she’d shattered her wrist. Her right leg had been broken in four places, including a compound fracture of the right tibia and fibula. For a long time, the only place she’d been able to move without pain was in the pool.

Now, five years later, she was mostly recuperated, but she still swam a hundred laps a day in the seventy-five-foot-long pool in the garden level of her high-rise condo building. The pale-turquoise water—a color that someone once told Blair matched her greenish-blue eyes—felt like a cool liquid caress, gently embracing her body as she stroked back and forth. An excellent morning workout. The exertion got her blood circulating and her heart pumping. Not unlike sex.

What a pleasant idea! Sex! Blair could hardly remember the last time she’d been to bed with a man. Was five years ago long enough to recertify her as a virgin at age thirty-four? Rather a depressing thought.

At the deep end, she rolled under the water and pushed away from the edge, gliding half the length of the pool underwater. Silence surrounded her. Through her goggles, she gazed at the flowing pattern of light and shadow in soothing ripples. When she broke the surface and caught a breath, she heard her name being called.

“Hey, Blair!”

Her first instinct was to dive, to ignore the intrusion. She preferred to keep swimming in lithe contemplation. But she paddled to the shallow end and looked up at the two men who awaited her. One was Adam Briggs, the head of Colorado Crime Consultants. Good! Adam was probably bringing her a project—something more to occupy her mind than contemplation of her status as a re-born virgin.

Before the accident, Dr. Blair Weston had been a medical examiner in the Denver Coroner’s Office. She still wasn’t able to go back to full-time work—didn’t have the stamina to stand for a long time without moving. Also, her head injuries caused uncontrollable dizzy spells. And her wrist, though healed, was still too shaky for detail work. Doing part-time consultation on medical forensics for CCC was all she could handle in spite of an ever-increasing need to bring in more income than she received from insurance disability.

When she glanced toward the other man, she felt a pleasant spark of recognition. She peeled off her goggles and grinned. “David.”

The last time she’d seen David Crawford was over a year ago when they’d bumped into each other in the grocery store. They’d exchanged phone numbers. He’d never called, and she’d assumed there was nothing more to talk about.

He squatted at the edge of the pool. “How’re you doing, Blair?”

“I’m fine.” If he really cared, he would have telephoned her the last time they met. Therefore she assumed David was here for another reason. “What can I do for you?”

“You look great,” he said.

Pushing away from the edge of the pool, she ducked her head under the water so her bangs would plaster over her forehead, covering the scar near her hairline. She assumed that David would revise his opinion of how “great” she looked if he could see the Frankenstein scars on her right leg.

“You’re the one who’s looking good,” she said. He’d aged well. The hint of silver in his thick, black hair added a touch of mature elegance. Though he was smiling, his grin was incomplete—lifting only on the left side in a way that made his face seem asymmetrical and interesting. She wondered if he had ever truly smiled after the death of his sister. “I saw you on TV. Some program about serial murders in Texas.”

Her voice echoed in the tiled pool room, giving this meeting a surreal, dreamlike quality—as if she were imagining these two men at the edge of the pool.

Adam didn’t stoop to talk to her. Though he’d left the military years ago, he maintained a rigid posture. He said, “Blair, I have a project for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s about the Fisherman.”

She bobbed under the water again. I don’t want to hear this! Five years ago, before her life came undone, the Fisherman serial murders had been her case. She’d autopsied all six of the victims. “I really don’t think I want to—”

“Get out of the damn pool,” Adam said. “We can’t have a sensible conversation while you’re splashing around like a dolphin.”

She looked away from Adam, turning her attention toward David. If she left the sheltering waters, he’d see her poor, battered leg. He’d notice her clumsy stride; he was a reporter and noticed everything.

“Blair.” Adam repeated her name as if she should snap to attention. “This consultation has important ramifications.”

“Like what?”

“There was a murder last night in City Park. Some of the particulars resemble the Fisherman crimes.”

She shuddered. Though she’d heard a news flash on the radio, she had no idea about the connection. “But it can’t be the Fisherman. He’s in jail.”

“Maybe not,” David said. “What if the wrong guy was convicted?”

“No way.” She couldn’t accept that possibility; it was too scary. During the earlier investigation, there had been threats aimed directly at her. The Fisherman knew who she was, knew her preferences and habits. “Eddy Adderly was convicted. After he was put in jail, there were no more murders.”

“Until now,” David said.

“That doesn’t fit any kind of psychological profile. Serial killers don’t take five years off before striking again.”

“Out of the pool,” Adam ordered. He held her towel. “Come on, Blair.”

“What’s the big rush?”

“I’ve arranged for you to observe the autopsy on this victim. This afternoon at 1530.”

“What time is that in civilian terms?”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Three-thirty this afternoon. At the Coroner’s Office.”

An autopsy? At her old office? A bevy of emotions charged through her brain: excitement at once again being part of a complex forensic investigation; satisfaction at the idea that she might be able to help; fear of plunging back into the fray.

“Let’s go,” Adam snapped.

Here came another emotion. She felt intensely self-conscious about climbing out of the pool. Don’t be silly! She wasn’t a giddy teenager who fretted about her body image. Blair was a grown woman, an adult. It shouldn’t matter to her what David thought.

Her thigh muscles flexed, and she stood up in the shallow water. A veil of droplets slid off her electric-blue, one-piece swimsuit with the French-cut legs that always seemed too high. She strode through the water and hoisted herself onto the concrete ledge.

Her first instinct was to grab the towel from Adam and cover the grotesque scarring on her leg, but she forced herself to follow her regular routine. She rubbed the moisture from her short brown hair, draped the towel over her shoulders and stood, revealing all five feet, eight inches of her body. Her angular shoulders. Her jutting hipbones. Her minimal breasts. And her right leg that was seven-eighths of an inch shorter than the left.

She felt David’s gaze upon her and avoided looking back at him, embarrassed by what she might read in his expression. Walking slowly to minimize her limp, she went to a hook at poolside where she grabbed her full-length terry cloth robe and wrapped it around her, tying the sash tightly at her waist. Her feet slipped into a pair of rubber thongs with a bright yellow daisy at the juncture of her first and second toes.

“Your answer?” Adam asked. “Will you attend the autopsy?”

“What’s my role in this?” Though her pulse raced, she kept her voice level and businesslike. “Why has CCC been called in? We usually don’t get involved in ongoing crime investigations.”

“Because of me,” David said. “About a week ago I asked CCC to take another look at my sister’s murder.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Eddy Adderly is dying, and it made me think. I want to know—without a shadow of doubt—that the right man was arrested and convicted, that the Fisherman will never harm another woman.”

She could hear the frustration in his voice. When she finally looked at David, she saw a troubled man who wanted the truth and didn’t care what she looked like. He didn’t think of her in terms of her appearance. And why not?

Her ping-pong shift in emotions was rather annoying. Only a moment ago she wanted to hide from David. Now, contrarily, she wanted him to notice her. Why shouldn’t David Crawford be interested in her as a woman?

“Listen, Blair, I don’t have any right to ask for your help. You don’t owe me anything. But I know—”

“How’s Jake?” Her tone was brittle.

“He’s fine,” David said warily.

“Still playing the field?”

“With a vengeance.”

She’d met David through his friend, Jake Zitti, whom she’d been dating at the time of the Fisherman murders. Jake was driving the car at the time of the accident. Jake the Snake dumped her before she was out of the hospital.

David was a whole different story. He’d made a dozen hospital visits, bringing flowers and magazines she couldn’t read because she was out of her mind on pain medication and didn’t care what she looked like. Other issues loomed larger. Would she ever walk again? Would she regain the use of her arm? David had been kind and encouraging. In some ways, she thought, he’d treated her with the tenderness and attention he was unable to lavish upon his murdered sister.

The memory of Danielle Crawford returned Blair’s attention to the Fisherman. Should she observe the autopsy? She turned to Adam. “I need to think about whether I want to be involved in this consultation. I’ll call you back at one o’clock. That would be, um, 1300 hours.”

“I know you’ll make the right decision.” Adam gave a brisk nod. “Call me on the cell.”

He pivoted and went out the door. She was left alone with David.

“Mind if I stick around?” he asked.

“You won’t influence my decision one way or the other,” she warned.

“Not even a little?”

“I don’t like looking backward. The Fisherman serial murders got real personal.” She shrugged off the remembered fear. “It’s a time in my life that I’d rather forget.”

“I understand.”

She rather doubted that. His response to those tragedies had been the extreme opposite of hers. Instead of trying to forget, David had obsessed over his sister’s murder. He’d plunged deeper and deeper into the horrifying world of serial killers and snipers and mass murderers. He’d travelled all around the country, searching for…what? “Why do you do it?” she asked. “Why do you keep digging into these crimes?”

He glanced at the pool. “Why do you swim?”

“A typical reporter.” She grinned. “Answering one question with another.”

“It’s my nature,” he said.

“You know, David, even though you’re a hotshot TV consultant, you still dress like a beat reporter.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re not quite put together. Khaki trousers with a belt that doesn’t match your loafers. Wrinkled blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Loosely knotted necktie. I bet you’re still wearing the same brown tweed sports jacket you had five years ago.”

“It’s in the car,” he said. “And you didn’t answer my question about swimming. Why do you do it?”

“Because it’s good for me.”

“But it’s not necessary physical therapy.”

“Not anymore,” she said.

“You’re pretty much recovered from your injuries,” he said. “Tell me, Dr. Blair Weston, why haven’t you gone back to work as a medical examiner?”

She held up her wrist, displaying the pale scars from two operations. “My hand is still too shaky.”

“For working on dead people?”

“For your information, there’s a certain degree of precision required in an autopsy.”

“Let me see that wrist.”

He caught hold of her forearm and pushed up the sleeve of her robe. With his thumb, he traced the line of scars along the tender flesh at the inside of her forearm. Though his hands were warmer than hers, his light caress sent shivers through her body.

She lifted her gaze to meet his and found herself fully engaged in a study of his intense, compelling eyes. A darker rim circled multifacets of blue, nearly as splintered and complicated as the man himself. As she stared at him, the tiled pool room and the rippling expanse of turquoise water faded into a soft, pleasant blur.

“I think there’s another reason you haven’t gone back to work,” he said gently. “I don’t know the label. Trauma. Fear. Sorrow. All of the above.”

“Maybe.” Blair had tried psychological therapy and quit when she didn’t make measureable headway.

“Were you ever able to recall what happened in the accident?”

She shook her head. She remembered driving with Jake. The windows on the car were down, and there was a breeze. Riding in a car with Jake behind the steering wheel was always a harrowing experience. Too fast. He always drove too fast. “I don’t remember the crash. My mind is a blank until I woke up in the hospital. I assume I was in shock.”

“Me, too,” he said. “After Danielle was killed, I went into emotional shock. The way I coped was writing about it. So there’s the answer to your question. I keep writing, keep digging into serial killings because I need to make sense of it. For my sister. And for myself.”

He might have undertaken an impossible task. “Do serial killings ever make sense?”

“Not in a rational way.”

She couldn’t quite believe that they were standing here, holding hands and talking about heinous crimes. “I should get going. Adam needs my decision in less than two hours.”

“I’d like to see you again,” David said. “Can I take you to lunch sometime?”

“How about now? Come upstairs with me, and I’ll make you a terrific tuna salad sandwich.”

“You’re on.”

Side by side, they left the swimming pool, crossed the lobby and boarded the elevator. Though Blair suspected that David was coming upstairs to convince her to investigate the Fisherman, his attention pleased her. He’d asked her to lunch. He wanted to spend time with her.

At her condo on the fifth floor, she unlocked the door. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just run into the bedroom and get changed.”

“Do you have to change?” David followed her into the living room. “I like the blue bathing suit. It shows off your curves.”

Her curves? Apparently, David had noticed more about her than her damaged leg. “Were you ogling me?”

“I’m a reporter. A trained observer.”

“And what have you observed?”

“Curves. Nice curves.”

His blue-eyed gaze rested warmly upon her. His masculine appreciation was unmistakable.

Blair didn’t know what to think of this attention from David Crawford, whom she’d always placed in the category of friend rather than boyfriend. Of course, she’d considered the possibility of dating him. With his black hair and blue eyes, he was handsome. And he was funny. And kind. Could there be something more between them than friendship?

“Come on, Blair.” His eyebrows lifted, teasing. “Let me see that bathing suit again.”

“If you want curves, take a drive down the Pikes Peak.”

“Are you scared to give me another glimpse?”

He was definitely flirting with her. It had been ages since she’d played this kind of game with a man. “Scared of you? No way.”

“Then do it.”

“Open my robe?”

“Or forever be branded a coward,” he said.

“I’m no chicken.” She untied the terry cloth sash. She literally put her best leg forward as she slowly parted the material and offered him a view.

“Very nice.” The corner of his mouth curved in a half-grin, and he reached toward her. His hands slipped inside her robe and rested on either side of her rib cage. “You’re perfectly proportioned.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“Lady, you’re close.”

She ought to object to his overture. Blair wasn’t the kind of woman who tumbled easily. She had more self-control in her little finger than most people had in their whole body. But, instead of pulling away, she leaned toward him.

She wanted to be held—wanted her electric-blue swimsuit to leave a damp impression on his rumpled shirt and khaki trousers. And she offered no objection when his lips touched hers. The pressure of his mouth was firm but tentative. This wasn’t a passionate kiss but more of an exploration, a testing of boundaries.

Then his hands encircled her torso, and he pulled her closer, crushing her against him.

His kiss became more demanding. His tongue forced her lips to part.

A sudden, pleasant heat shimmered through her body like a mirage. Her boundaries crumbled as she swooned against him. It had been so long. She’d missed this tenderness, this passion, this intimacy. She wanted to let go of all inhibitions and tear away their clothes.

But that would be crazy. Foolish. She would never risk her heart again. Awkwardly she separated from him, taking a clumsy step backward, ending their delicious embrace. “How did that happen?”

“I could show you again,” he offered.

“I think not.” When she turned away from him, a secret smile of pure delight played across her lips. “Now, I’m going to change clothes.”

“I like black lingerie,” David said.

“Dream on.”

“I will.”

As he watched her leave the room, David exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He felt like a very lucky man. Three times lucky.

Once lucky because when he contacted CCC, the first name Adam mentioned was his old friend, Blair.

Twice lucky because Blair was glad to see him.

Lucky times three, because she kissed him back. He’d felt her body yearning toward him, and he could tell that she was as hot as he was. Maybe even hotter.

He strolled across the carpet and sank into a recliner chair. Why hadn’t he kissed her sooner? Years sooner?

Leaning back in the chair, he checked out her condo. The recliner where he sat was the only comfortable piece of furniture. The rest of the room was exercise equipment: a treadmill, a stationary bicycle and a mat for floor exercises. There was a small table with two chairs in the dining area—not a space that was large enough for entertaining. The blinds were drawn.

David recognized the no-frills decor. This was a purely functional space for a single person. In that way it reminded him of his own town house, which was nicely furnished but unused except for the desk and the bed.

In just a few minutes she returned to the living room. She wore jeans and a purple jersey shirt with a white collar. Her gait was different. He assumed that her black shoes were fitted with lifts that made walking easier. She’d blown dry her short brown hair in a cute tousled style that made him want to run his fingers through it.

“I have a question,” she said. “About the woman who was killed yesterday, what was her profession?”

David knew exactly where she was going. The Fisherman chose his victims carefully. Though he was subtle, there was evidence that he stalked these women before he abducted and killed them. His six victims came from three workplaces: hospital, newspaper and law enforcement. “She was a cop.”

Blair cringed. “I assume she wasn’t on duty.”

“She was retired,” he said. “A former homicide detective. She quit the force last year to stay home with her family.”

“Oh, no. She had kids?”

“Two boys. They’re both grown and in college. The victim spent most of her time taking care of her aging parents.” There was one more piece of information he needed to tell her. “This latest victim was one of the investigators on the Fisherman murders five years ago.”

“Her name?”

“Pamela Comforti.”

Blair gasped. “I knew her.”

David was beginning to regret his request that Blair get involved in the investigation. She’d been through enough. She didn’t need to be dragged back into this tragedy. “I’m sorry.”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “There’s not much time before I need to call Adam. What do you think I should do?”

“I’m torn,” he said honestly.

“Why?”

“Of course I want your input. You were the medical examiner in charge of the prior murders. You’re smart. You know how to interpret the data. And you know the Fisherman’s modus operandi.”

However, as she’d mentioned before, the prior investigation had become personal. At the time, Blair had been assigned a bodyguard. “Why did the police consider you a target?”

“Godiva chocolate.” She went toward the kitchen. “Come in here with me while I make sandwiches.”

He followed her to the small galley kitchen. Though David knew most of the details on the Fisherman murders, her reference wasn’t familiar. “What about Godiva chocolate?”

“It was a detail that the police kept secret,” she said as she went to the fridge and took out the makings for sandwiches.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked.

She turned and faced him. Her green eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes, shone bright. “Because I did the autopsy on the first victim, the Fisherman serial murders became my case.”

He nodded. Standard procedure for the Coroner’s Office was to maintain consistency on related murders. “Go on.”

“My autopsy results on the contents of the stomach and upper GI showed that every victim, after the first one, had eaten chocolate a few hours before her death.”

“So?”

“Specifically, it was Godiva chocolate.”

David still didn’t get it. “What does this have to do with you?”

She pointed to a gold foil box on the kitchen counter. “I’ve always had a passion for Godiva chocolate. Some of the forensics people even called me Lady Godiva. The police deduced that the Fisherman was feeding his victims my favorite chocolate before he killed them.”

“As a sick threat to you.”

“Very sick,” she said.

David’s jaw tightened. “Call Adam right now. Tell him to forget about the autopsy. I don’t want this psycho coming after you again.”

“Neither do I.” Pensively she frowned. “But it’s not my choice. It’s up to the Fisherman. He makes the decision about who’s next.”

Chapter Two

Blair opened the gold box of Godiva and popped a mini-truffle into her mouth. The rich chocolate melted comfortingly on her tongue. Of course she worried about the Fisherman and the scheduled autopsy and an investigation that might turn deadly. She’d be crazy not to be nervous. However, a different concern was uppermost in her mind. David.

As she made sandwiches at the kitchen counter, he stood near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. She could smell him—a clean scent like soap and fresh laundry.

“Blair.” The way he spoke her name sounded like an endearment. “I don’t want you to do anything that might be dangerous.”

Like kissing you? While she’d been changing clothes, the fact that they’d kissed had absorbed into her consciousness. There was an obvious sexual buzz between them, but she didn’t understand why or where it might be going. Was she ready for a real relationship? Would she be satisfied with less?

“Blair, are you—”

“Fine, I’m fine.” She flapped her hand, brushing away his concern. “There’s nothing dangerous about my life, David. The way I figure, my odds of being attacked by a serial killer are about a hundred thousand to one.” Which was roughly equivalent to the odds of a single thirty-four-year-old woman who seldom left her house finding a meaningful relationship with a man. “Wildly unlikely.”

“Wrong,” he said. “The Fisherman isn’t a random killer. His targets are—”

“I know. Women who work in medicine, law enforcement or the media. None of which applies to me. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t work anywhere.” Without turning around to look at him, she groped for the door to the refrigerator. “What do you want to drink?”

“Any kind of soda pop that’s not diet.”

Her teensy kitchen wasn’t big enough for two people, but he continued to hover as if lurking within a three-foot radius would somehow protect her from a psychotic murderer. She grabbed two cans of pop from the fridge and circled to face him. “Excuse me, David. It’s a bit crowded in here.”

“I should hire a bodyguard for you.”

“What?”

He dropped his hands to her shoulders and stared intently at her. “Let me do this. I’ll hire somebody who won’t get in the way. Not a guy. A woman bodyguard. A really big woman who knows martial arts.”

“You want to hire Xena the Warrior Princess to look after me?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said.

This time, when she looked up into his well-meaning eyes, she didn’t have the urge to kiss him. It was the opposite: she wanted to punch that lantern jaw. Who did he think he was? What gave him the right to come in here and disrupt her life?

He said, “You need protection.”

“What I need is space.”

She pressed the icy aluminum cans in her hands against his chest, and he recoiled.

“Damn, Blair. That’s cold.”

“Be glad the pop cans aren’t open. I might have dumped the contents on your pointed head.” She glared. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The Fisherman is in jail.” She nodded toward the other room. “We’re ready to eat. Go sit at the table.”

He left the kitchen but didn’t sit. “I’m not letting go of this, Blair. Yesterday’s victim was involved with the prior investigation. Just like you.”

“Enough.” She slammed the pop cans down on the table. “As of this moment, I’m officially declaring a moratorium on discussion of the Fisherman.”

“You can’t ignore this,” he said.

“Accept my conditions or leave.”

He pulled out a chair and sat.

Silently she counted to five, allowing her emotions to settle. “We’re going to have a nice lunch. Just a couple of old friends, renewing our acquaintance.”

She glanced at her small, round dining table that was old enough to qualify as antique but not polished. She should have covered the scratched-up veneer with a tablecloth or thrown together a centerpiece—something to make their lunch more cosy. But her tablecloths were stuck away in a linen drawer. What could she do to make this lunch more civilized?

“Wine?” she asked.

“No.”

“Music,” she said, turning on the radio, set to the classical station. “Rossini.”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing like a good rotini.”

“That’s a pasta, David.”

“Whatever.”

She opened her vertical blinds. Daylight from the floor-to-ceiling windows splashed into her condo. On the fifth floor, she was just above the leafy green treetops. Her windows faced west, and it would’ve been a spectacular panorama if other high-rise buildings hadn’t been in the way. As it was, she could only see slices of the Rockies.

Busily, she set lunch on the table. Tuna salad sandwiches and blue corn chips. Her fiesta-ware plates looked…festive, but the paper napkins were terminally tacky. At the very least, she ought to have decent glasses for the soda pop. Returning to the kitchen, she climbed onto the counter to reach the top cabinet shelf where she kept her crystal. The goblets were dusty.

“Blair? What are you doing in there?”

“Nothing.” She climbed down and grabbed two plain water glasses that she filled with ice and brought to the table. “Should I light a candle or something?”

“Not on my account,” David said.

But she wanted their lunch to be pleasant—free from thoughts about serial killers, free from the tragedies of the past. She wanted to pretend that David was here because he found her attractive and interesting. This casual lunch was the closest to a date she’d had in months. Pathetic! “I’ve got to get out more.”

“Likewise.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I keep telling myself that I need a hobby, like golf.”

“An old man’s game,” she said as she sat.

“Not since Tiger Woods.”

David’s expression seemed wary as he peered across the table and chewed. She sensed that he was waiting for the right moment to launch into more talk of the Fisherman, his personal obsession. Not just yet, old pal. She was determined to engage in polite conversation, and the topic was golf. “I used to caddy for my father,” she said. “I think he uses a cart now.”

“Where are your parents living now?”

“Near Tucson. Yours?”

“They’re still here in Denver.”

She asked if he’d read any good books or seen any movies. And he asked what she put in her tuna salad. Gosh, they were boring! If their small talk got any more amiably bland, they’d both fall asleep. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me about your travels.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which bizarre crime scene would you like to hear about?”

Actually, she was rather interested in neurological damage in the Texas hammer murders, but she didn’t want to start down a slippery slope that might lead to the Fisherman. “You were in Texas. Tell me about the wide-open spaces.”

He wrenched the knot loose on his necktie. “How long are we going to dance around the issue, Blair?”

She tossed her napkin on the plate, symbolically throwing in the towel. “All right. The Fisherman. Talk.”

David laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles like a concert pianist preparing to play Rachmaninoff. “Everybody assumes that the right man was convicted because the killing stopped when he was arrested. Like you said, it’s not typical for a serial killer to take a break. But not unheard of. For example, the Green River murders in Washington. That guy killed more than forty women in two years. Then he stopped.”

“He was recently apprehended,” she said. “Was there an explanation for why he stopped?”

“He might have continued killing in a different location. The cops are trying to link him to various other unsolved crimes.”

“What are some other explanations for a time lapse?”

“The killer moves. Or dies. Sometimes, they get arrested. Then, when they’re released, they start up again.”

Another possibility occurred to her. “Maybe yesterday’s murder wasn’t committed by the Fisherman. It might be a copycat crime.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Part of the Fisherman’s thrill was a power trip. He liked outsmarting the cops. Remember? He used to send notes to a columnist at The Post.”

“Ted Hurtado.” He was another friend of Jake’s. “Wonder whatever happened to him.”

“I’ll look him up,” David said. “Ted’s a good place to start.”

She was a bit confused about the logistics. David had contacted Adam at CCC, but it sounded like he had plans of his own. “Are you going to investigate? You personally?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing for the past five years. Looking into crime and analyzing.”

“What part does CCC play?”

“Adam said he would compile the old case files and court records. If I came up with questions, he would have volunteer experts who can help.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You were the first name he mentioned. He said you were the best at reviewing forensic medical evidence.”

For a moment, she had a glimmer of déjà vu, remembering when she was a medical examiner working with the other forensics experts and detectives. She liked being part of that team, tracking down clues and putting together the pieces of a puzzle.

Her part in crime-solving wasn’t often a source of pulse-pounding excitement. Rather, her work involved meticulous study, attention to detail, science and reasoning. But when she was able to contribute to an arrest, she experienced a deep satisfaction.

Should she attend the autopsy? Was there any way her presence would help unravel the past or solve the present crime?

David asked, “How did you get involved with Adam?”

One day he showed up on her doorstep without prelude or introduction. In direct, no-frills terms, he told her of his mission: reviewing old cases, offering expert evaluation when called upon by the police or looking into suspicious events. When Blair agreed to act as a consultant, CCC paid her expenses and, sometimes, offered a small stipend. But she didn’t do this work for the money. Her disability insurance payments and savings were sufficient to live on.

“Adam came to me, and I couldn’t say no.” She believed in his goal to help the surviving family and friends find closure. “I have skills. They were going to waste.”

“Have you thought about other work options?” David asked. “Like teaching?”

“I’ve considered teaching forensic medicine.”

But she wasn’t ready to settle for less, to take a diminished position. When the accident forced her to leave the Coroner’s Office, she was at the top of her game. All the cops wanted to work with her. Her opinions were sought after.

She didn’t want to return to the field as a pathetic loser—a has-been who never really was. It felt as if she’d failed. The thought of limping back to the Coroner’s Office this afternoon seemed like an exercise in humiliation. “I think I’m going to take a pass on the autopsy this afternoon.”

David nodded. “There’s another issue I want to talk to you about. I’d like to see you again.”

She couldn’t imagine why. They obviously had nothing in common but a weird interest in violent crime. She and David were both damaged people, struggling to overcome the disasters in the past. If she was smart, she wouldn’t see him again. Why sign up for a voyage on the Titanic when you know it’s going to run into an iceberg?

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” he said. “May I take you out to dinner?”

“Yes.” The word popped out of her mouth. “What should I wear?”

“Something skimpy.” He stood and pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket. He placed his business card on the table. “Call if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you at seven tomorrow night.”

She accompanied him to the door. “One question, David. When I saw you a year ago in the grocery store, why didn’t you call?”

“Timing.” He had a ready excuse. “I was on my way out of town. When I came back, it seemed like too long. Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I’m old-fashioned. I believe in letting the man make the first move.”

“Yeah, right.” David doubted that she had one non-assertive, old-fashioned bone in her entire delectable body.

“There were other reasons,” she said, “that you didn’t call me.”

“Right.” When he saw her a year ago, David had pitched backward in time. She reminded him of the investigation, the Fisherman. “I wasn’t ready.”

“For what?”

“Memories. Keeping the past where it belongs.”

“The past isn’t all bad,” she said.

“Not entirely.” He remembered taking care of her after the accident, nursing her. There was something very satisfying about being needed. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?”

She nodded. “And we both survived.”

He looked down into her turquoise eyes. “It’s time to write a new chapter in our story—one that includes a lot of kissing.”

“You sound awfully romantic for a true crime reporter.”

“Tomorrow,” he said as he closed the door behind himself and went down the hall to the elevator.

Her condo building had fairly decent security, but David didn’t think it was enough if Blair was really in danger. No surveillance cameras on the floors. And there wasn’t a doorman. Earlier today, he and Adam had gained access to the swimming pool by buzzing the resident manager and asking where they could find Blair.

Until he knew what was happening with the investigation, he wanted to make sure she was safe. Since she wouldn’t let him hire a bodyguard, he’d take on that duty for himself.

At his Cherry Creek town house, David parked in front and ran up the concrete steps. He unlocked the door and charged inside, full of purpose. His gun, if he remembered correctly, was in a shoe box on the top shelf of the downstairs linen closet. He glanced past the sunken living room to the kitchen counter where Jake stood, eating pizza in the midst of scattered newspapers.

“Hey, bud,” Jake called out. “What’s up?”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“In about an hour. There’s a press conference on last night’s murder.”

At the linen closet, David pushed aside the stacked sheets on the top shelf. He found the box, opened it and took out his black Glock automatic. The heft of the weapon felt good in his hand. He held the gun straight out and sighted down the barrel.

“What the hell?” Jake stood at the end of the hall. “What’s going on?”

“I need protection.”

“Is somebody coming after you?”

“Not me,” David said. “Blair.”

“Blair Weston?” Jake stumbled back a step. He looked like somebody had punched him hard in the gut, knocking all the hot air out of him. “Damn.”

At least, David thought, his friend had the belated decency to realize he’d behaved badly toward Blair. After nearly killing her in the car accident, Jake had ended their relationship.

“She looks great,” David said. “Her hair’s short. Real cute. It makes her eyes look huge.”

“What happened to her was a damned shame,” Jake said. “Poor kid.”

Disgusted, David turned away. He couldn’t stand to look at this supposed fun guy—love-’em-and-leave-’em Jake Zitti. “Don’t waste your pity on Blair. She’s completely recovered.”

“After the accident…” Jake’s voice faltered. “I couldn’t stand to see her all beat up like that. It wasn’t really my fault. Some jerk cut me off. Hit-and-run. They disappeared.”

“Face it, Jake. You had an accident because you drive like a madman.”

And Blair had paid the price. Reaching into the shoe box where he’d kept his gun, David took out his permit to carry a weapon. He tossed aside the box and went into his first-floor office. In the bottom desk drawer, he had several clips of bullets filed among the computer discs.

He snapped in a clip and swiveled around in his desk chair to face Jake. “Now all I need is the shoulder holster.”

“Tell me again why you’re packing heat.”

“I’m investigating,” David said cryptically. “Which reminds me. Is Ted Hurtado still working at The Post?”

“Teddy’s back. He took off for a while to write a book or something. But I saw him the other day.” Jake glanced at the gun. “I can help you out with the holster. I’ve got one that should work. You just clip it onto your belt.”

David raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You carry a gun?”

“Not all the time. But there was this girl that I dated. Great-looking woman. Long red hair all the way to her butt. Anyway, she was…”

“Married?”

“Right,” Jake said. “I broke it off. But her husband was the jealous type and I thought he was going to kill me.”

David shook his head. “Jackass.”

AFTER BLAIR MADE THE CALL to Adam, telling him that she wouldn’t be at the autopsy, she began second-guessing herself. Should she go? If the murder yesterday was connected to the Fisherman case, she might be able to help. On the other hand, if David was right and she was targeted as a victim, she’d be smart to lie low.

Uncertain, she paced through her condo. The two-bedroom space had never felt so confining. When she stood outside on the balcony and peered at her glimpse of the mountains, she felt trapped as a baby bird in a nest, afraid to fly. Grow up, Blair! You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding out. She needed to get out, even if it was only to go to the bookstore or grab an espresso.

She grabbed her car keys and backpack. While recovering from her many operations, a lot of her time was spent on crutches, which meant she needed both hands free. She’d gotten into the habit of using a backpack or fanny pack instead of a purse.

Heading out the door and down the hall to the elevator felt like a victory march. She didn’t know exactly where she was headed, didn’t have a plan. But at least she wasn’t cowering.

Inside the elevator, Blair hit the button for the basement level where her car was parked. As soon as she opened the door to her Camry, she was met with a sickening stench. What was that smell?

On the passenger side, staining the upholstery, was a dead, gaping trout. Blood and guts spilled across the seat.

A cold dead fish. From the Fisherman.

Chapter Three

With a gasp, Blair yanked herself out of the car. Her gaze flitted to the far corners of the underground garage. “Anybody here?”

Her voice echoed back at her, and she could hear the sound of her own fear. Her panic. He could be anywhere. Hiding inside the stairwell. Ducked behind another parked car.

In spite of the stink, she climbed behind the steering wheel of her Camry and locked the doors. The inside of her head whirled like a centrifuge. She was about to black out. An overwhelming vortex dragged her down into darkness. She was falling, unable to catch herself.

She blinked, forcing herself to see. Through the windshield, the concrete wall wavered as her vision faded. The light and shadow blurred.

Fighting dizziness, she turned the key in the ignition. Her fingers shook. She had to get away from here. Slowly she backed from her slot, turned and drove up the ramp onto the street where May sunlight splashed in a burst of ironic cheerfulness.

Breathing hard, she drove to the corner, turned right, drove two more blocks and parked. The sense of vertigo began to ebb, leaving her trembling and confused. She stared out at the street. Quite literally, she didn’t know which way to turn.

It wouldn’t do any good to return to the condo, run upstairs and lock her door. He knew where she lived.

Call the cops? Eventually, she’d turn over the dead fish for forensic analysis. There might be prints or fibers. But right now she wasn’t ready to face a police interrogation.

Escape? She could move in with a friend. Go to Tucson and stay with her parents. But what if he followed? She couldn’t be responsible for bringing danger to someone else’s doorstep.

Blair knew what she must do.

The dead fish in the passenger seat took precedence over her prudent, don’t-get-involved attitude. Like it or not, she was a part of this inquiry. She needed to be at the autopsy.

And she wanted David at her side.

After a stop at a convenience store, where she bought a newspaper and used it to wrap the fish, which she stashed in the trunk, she got back into the driver’s seat and rolled down all the windows hoping to blow away the stench. Ventilation didn’t help. The disgusting odor clung to her, sinking deep into her pores, reminding her of the danger. He’d been close enough to put the dead fish in her car. And he could come even closer.

Checking the address on the business card David had given her, she aimed toward the Cherry Creek area. Though David lived only fifteen minutes away from her high-rise—close enough that they both went to the same grocery store—his town house was obviously in a higher tax bracket. The row of six two-story units, set back from the street, were expensively charming with molded stucco curves swooping around large windows. Each unit had its own attached garage. To afford a place like this, David must be doing very well for himself.

Walking up the sidewalk to his door, Blair hesitated. How could David help her? He wasn’t a cop. What did she expect from him?

Comfort, she decided. Earlier today, when he’d held her and kissed her, she experienced a blissful relief. For that one moment in his arms, she forgot about her failures, her scars and her disappointments. She felt nearly happy, and she needed that feeling again—something to erase the stinking miasma of threat and danger.

Jabbing with her index finger, she pressed the buzzer.

The door opened. Jake Zitti! Though his thinning hair was now shaved bald, Blair knew him. There he was. The man who had destroyed her life. She saw confusion in his dark eyes, a nervous quiver at the corner of his mouth.

As she stared at him, she felt…nothing. She was detached—as if she’d surgically removed this cancerous man from her life. Jake the Snake was nothing to her, less than zero.

“Where’s David?” she asked.

“Hey, Blair. It’s great to see you.”

Not bothering with a polite response, she pushed past him into the town house. “David?”

He appeared in the foyer, carrying a gun.

She pointed at the automatic pistol. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning my weapon.”

From behind her back, she heard Jake snicker as he said, “Polishing his rod.”

What a jerk!

Jake continued, “Checking his clip.”

Ignoring him, Blair said to David, “I’ve decided to observe the autopsy. Come with me. I’d like you to drive.”

“Let’s go.”

He came toward her with the Glock automatic still in his hand. Though Blair was concerned about the fishy threat from the Fisherman, she didn’t want to drag David into the role of protector. “When was the last time you fired that thing?”

“Years ago.”

At the Coroner’s Office there were dozens of armed police. She ought to be safe. “Leave the gun.”

“Right.” He handed the pistol to Jake. “Put this away. Someplace safe.”

As they whisked out the door, Jake called after them. “Have fun. See you. Bye.”

“Jackass,” David muttered under his breath.

“Does he live with you?”

“Temporarily. He moved in about a week and a half ago after his latest girlfriend kicked him out.” David flinched as if trying to shake off the sticky tentacles of an unpleasant parasite. “I’m sorry you had to run into him like this.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” she said. “I always wondered what would happen when I saw him again. Now I know.”

“You’ve forgiven him?”

“Not really,” she said. “But hating takes too much effort.”

At the curb, David held open the passenger door to a bronze Acura and she climbed inside. She fastened her seat belt and gritted her teeth. Ever since the accident, she was uncomfortable riding in cars when other people were driving. This time, she had no choice; the stink made her own vehicle unbearable.

David started up the car. “Why did you change your mind about the autopsy?”

“Why did you have a gun in your hand?”

He gave her one of his poignant half grins. “I’m the reporter. I’m the one who’s supposed to answer a question with a question.”

Blair knotted her fingers together on her lap and kept her eye trained on the road, alert to any potential hazard as he pulled away from the curb. “You first.”

“The gun is for self-defense. I don’t know how dangerous this investigation might get, and I want to be prepared.”

“The Fisherman never attacks men.”

“Not yet.” He turned west on Eighth Avenue, merging with acceptable expertise. “You changed your mind. It sounds like you’re certain that we’re dealing with the original Fisherman.”

“Maybe.”

“Less than an hour ago, you told me he was in jail and the current murder might be the work of a copycat. What happened, Blair?”

A gutted trout in the passenger seat of her car didn’t seem so scary now that she was with David. And she didn’t want to admit that she’d been terrified by a fish, driven to the brink of passing out.

She pointed to a minivan that edged too close on the passenger side. “Watch out for this guy.”

David slowed to let the minivan pull ahead on the three-lane street approaching central Denver. “Why did you change your mind?”

“Gosh, you’re persistent.” She fidgeted. “Let’s just say that I didn’t have anything better to do this afternoon.”

“Did you tell Adam you’d be at the autopsy?”

“I guess I ought to do that.” She pointed to the next corner. “I think there’s a pay phone at that gas station.”

“Don’t you have a cell?”

The modern dependence on mobile communication was unnecessary in her case, she hardly left her condo. “Anybody who needs to reach me can leave a message on my home phone.”

David reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ridiculously tiny phone.

“Pull over,” she snapped. “No driving while you’re on the phone.”

“Right. Okay. You’re kind of a back-seat driver, Blair.”

“Kind of.”

He eased to the curb and put the car in Park while he called Adam. And she concentrated on breathing slowly, calming herself. She certainly didn’t want her former colleagues at the Coroner’s Office to see her behaving like a crazy woman. The only thing she had left was her previous reputation.

David ended the call. “Adam says he’s glad that you’ve decided to participate. And he wants us to stop by his office in Golden when we’re done.”

She nodded.

David held the tiny phone toward her. “I want you to take this. To use in case of an emergency.”

She pushed it back toward him. “Don’t need it.”

“Give me a break, Blair. You won’t let me hire Xena as a bodyguard, won’t let me carry my Glock. At least, take the damn phone. You might have to call 911.”

“Fine.” Though she didn’t like being contradicted, it was nice to have someone fussing over her.

As they neared the Coroner’s Office, where the autopsy would take place, she gave a series of directions, leading to the most convenient parking lot.

David pulled into a slot and turned to her. “Would it be better if I dropped you off near the door?”

“Why?”

“I know you can swim like a dolphin, but I wasn’t sure how you are with walking.”

“Not a problem,” she said defensively. “My right leg is seven-eighths of an inch shorter than the left, but I have a corrective lift. I’m fine with walking. In the right shoes, I can even jog.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you, but I remember what it was like right after the accident.” His voice was gentle, without a trace of condescension. “All the pins you had in your leg. All the operations. For a while the surgeons weren’t sure you were going to be okay.”

“Guess I showed them.”

His gaze melted over her like warm honey. “I’m proud of you, Blair.”

Basking in his approval, her heart lifted. The day seemed more golden and bright. “I could get accustomed to these compliments.”

“I’m not lying,” he said. “You amaze me.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Now you’re feeding me a line.”

“Don’t get me confused with Jake. He’s the slick one, the pick-up artist. I’m the dork who sits in the corner, not drinking so he can be the designated driver.”

“The caretaker.”

She remembered, too. David had always taken responsibility, made sure everybody else was all right. He was kind enough to open his home to an annoying jerk like Jake. He wanted to hire a bodyguard for her. Though his motivation was partially due to a generous nature, she suspected a darker rationale. He took care of others because he hadn’t been able to save his sister.

Losing Danielle was the defining moment in his life. And that worried her. She wasn’t sure if David could ever heal from that terrible wound.

ENTERING THE CORONER’S OFFICE where he had come five years ago to identify his sister’s body, David realized how much he needed to know the truth about her murder. Throughout the trial of Eddy Adderly and all the way through the sentencing, he had doubts. The evidence was inconclusive. Alibis didn’t match. There was a lack of tangible proof for every murder except the last one.

But he accepted the verdict. For the past five years he tried to convince himself that justice had been done. But now he didn’t believe it. The Fisherman had struck again.

“Excuse me.” A tall, thin man stepped up beside them while they were signing in and getting their visitor badges. “Aren’t you David Crawford?”

“That’s right.” David looked directly into the man’s round, black glasses. “And you are?”

“Justin Hunter.” His smile was shy and somehow furtive. His handshake was the same. “I’m a fan of your work.”

Though some of the magazines that printed David’s articles ran a small photo, he wasn’t often recognized. “Do you work here, Justin?”

“I sell medical supplies.”

As Justin continued to stare with a weird intensity, David moved away from him. “Nice meeting you.”

He fell into step beside Blair. As she proceeded down the hall, he felt as if he was escorting royalty. Everybody who had known Dr. Blair Weston before the accident greeted her enthusiastically. New employees approached her with deference. She had a sterling reputation as a medical examiner. Almost legendary.

The head M.E., a husky man with a ruddy complexion, enveloped her in a bear hug. “Good to see you, Dr. Weston.”

“Back at you, Dr. Reinholdt.” Blair’s radiant smile was wonderful to behold. “You look hale and hearty.”

“A little too hearty,” Reinholdt said, patting his ample belly. “The wife has me on tofu and salad.”

“A wise woman,” Blair said.

“Of course you’d take her side,” he said. “You women always stick together.”

Blair winked. “Because we’re always right.”

Unnoticed, David observed the interactions of the small but boisterous crew of pathologists. These were people who performed all manner of chemical analysis, ranging from DNA tests to toxicology. They were scientists—smart, well-trained people with high IQs. Also quirky. David noticed a definite nerd gene in their collective personality.

At the door to the autopsy suite, he encountered a more familiar face—a detective from Denver PD, Homicide Division. His name was John Weathers, and he’d been part of the team investigating the original series of Fisherman killings.

David had never been impressed with Weathers’s abilities. He was a bland, by-the-book cop with beige hair and a brown suit, average height, average weight. He had no imagination when it came to tracking down a killer who was unfortunately near genius in his crimes.

Willing to let bygones be bygones, David stuck out his hand. “Detective Weathers. I was sorry to hear about Pamela Comforti. My condolence on the loss of your co-worker.”

“You’re David Crawford, right?” As he shook hands, a realization dawned and his brown eyes narrowed. “The reporter.”

“That’s right.”

“Get out,” Weathers said. “I don’t want the press in here.”

“I’m not covering this case as a journalist,” David said. “It’s personal.”

“I don’t want you here.”

That was too damned bad. David straightened his shoulders. “I’m not leaving.”

It probably would’ve been smarter to talk his way around the detective’s objections, but David wasn’t inclined to be reasonable. At issue was his sister’s murder. If the cops had screwed up five years ago and arrested the wrong man…

Weathers beckoned to a uniformed cop who stood farther down the corridor near the metal detectors at the exit. “Escort this man from the building.”

Blair joined them. “Is there a problem?”

“Dr. Weston,” Weathers acknowledged her. “I appreciate your willingness to help out on this case.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said, “especially since I’m not on the clock as a county employee.”

The uniform approached with a rolling gait. His meaty fist rested on the gun clipped to his utility belt.

David braced himself. His adrenaline level surged; he was prepared to take on both the uniform and Weathers. Again, not the smartest plan.

Blair touched his arm. “Please come with me, David. They’re ready to get started.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Weathers said. “This man is press. He’s not allowed to—”

“Then I’m leaving,” Blair said.

Dr. Reinholdt stepped up behind her. His brow furrowed as he glared at Weathers. “What’s going on? Detective, I need Dr. Weston’s opinion.”

Blair added, “And I won’t stay without David.”

“Right,” the detective snapped. He turned to David, “If I see one word about this autopsy in print, you’ll be sorry.”

Suppressing the urge to gloat, David gave a quick nod and followed Blair into the autopsy suite where the body of the deceased, covered by a sheet, lay on a wide metal gurney under bright lights.

As Blair slipped into a gown and put on a pair of latex gloves, she whispered, “What was that all about?”

“Not important.”

David had attended part of one autopsy and had seen the aftermath of another—enough to know he didn’t want to stand too close. Edging back, he leaned against a stainless steel counter and folded his arms across his chest to keep from accidentally touching something he should avoid.

From the opposite side of the room, he saw Detective Weathers’s eyes watching him as though David were a dangerous felon. Some cops, like Weathers, had a problem: they got so wrapped up in their own authority that they forgot the real crime and the real criminals. Determining who was in charge was a whole lot less important than the dead woman on the autopsy table.

Dr. Reinholdt removed the sheet. “We’ve already completed the external examination and taken photos. There are a few details I’d like to point out.”

Blair and three others—M.E.s and forensic pathologists—leaned forward to study the body.

Reinholdt said, “The ligature contusions at the wrists and ankles indicate that she was tied up and struggled against her bonds.”

“Nylon rope?” Blair asked.

“Yes.”

“Cause of death?”

“Drowning.”

From where he stood, David saw a length of marbled white thigh, slightly bluish. He could also see her head. In profile, her nose seemed prominent. Her cheek sank in. Her hair was a limp tangle of auburn.

“David,” Blair called to him. “Come closer.”

Though he was fine where he was, he didn’t want to appear squeamish. David put on his reporter’s face. It was his job to observe and make deductions; he could handle this. Stepping forward, he looked where she was pointing.

“See here,” she said, “on the abdomen. There’s an oddly shaped circle of pinprick scars. Postmortem injuries?”

“Yes,” Dr. Reinholdt said. “Those puncture wounds were made after death.”

With a gloved finger, Blair probed the flesh. “It’s a jagged tear. Not a pin.” She looked up at Reinholdt. “A fish hook.”

“Good call, Dr. Weston.” He glanced toward one of the forensic pathologists. “I told you she was sharp.”

Blair lifted the right hand to study the pattern of bruises on the forearms. “Her hands were tied in front of her. She lifted her arms to cover her face. Or to lash out.”

“She put up a fight,” Dr. Reinholdt said. “But we found no tissue under the fingernails. Matter of fact, we’ve found very little. No semen. No DNA. No fingerprints.”

“A clean kill,” said the pathologist. “Very clean. After death, the body was washed thoroughly with a strong lye-based soap.”

Blair peeked over her shoulder at David. “Except for the circle of wounds on the abdomen, this murder is consistent with the Fisherman.”

“I see.” He saw too much. His view of the inert body on the cold metal table churned up a serious revulsion in his gut. He might have puked right here, embarrassing himself badly, if he hadn’t also felt a hard burning rage. It was wrong for this innocent victim to be lying here. The man who killed her and terrorized her before death deserved to be caught, tried and brought to justice. He deserved to be confined for all eternity in his own private hell.

David stepped back when he saw Reinholdt take a scalpel from a tray of instruments.

Though the temperature in the autopsy room was cool, a sweat broke across David’s forehead. He adjusted the knot on his necktie. His throat tightened; it was hard to swallow.

Reinholdt made a Y-shaped incision from the shoulders to the middle of the chest, then straight down. The dark red blood had congealed. The heart was no longer pumping. The flesh was opened to reveal the internal organs.

It wasn’t necessary for David to stay in the room. He didn’t know enough about anatomy to notice any unusual clues, and he wasn’t particularly interested in learning. He could leave right now and wait for Blair to tell him the important details.

Struggling to swallow, he glanced across the room at Detective Weathers and the uniformed cop who stood beside him. Neither of them were looking directly at the body. The uniformed officer’s complexion had paled and his jaw flexed tight. If they can take it, so can I. David forced himself to watch as Reinholdt removed an organ and placed it on the kind of hanging scale found in grocery stores.

The autopsy team worked quickly and efficiently, keeping up a running commentary that was recorded by an overhead microphone for later transcription. After removing and weighing various organs, they took tissue samples.

Blair stepped back beside him for a moment. “Any questions?”

“What do they do with those pieces?”

“We preserve the body fluids and tissues for microscopic and toxicological testing.”

“Wasn’t she drowned?”

“Beyond cause of death, the body can reveal a lot of clues.”

When she looked directly at him, David worked hard at being cool. He’d already wiped the sweat off his forehead, but his mouth was cottony, and his lips stuck together.

She cocked her head and asked, “Are you okay?”

“You bet.” He nodded slowly so his head wouldn’t get dizzy and fall right off his shoulders onto the tiled floor.

She patted his arm and turned back to the autopsy table. The inside of the body wasn’t tidy like those neat overlapping transparencies in biology class that showed the layers of sinew and muscle, then different-colored organs, then a white skeleton. This work was messy, and there was a pungent smell that defied description.

David had to look at something else. He concentrated on the back of Blair’s head. Her soft brown hair made a pleasant distraction. She leaned forward to get a better view, and he could see part of her profile—high cheekbones and sharply defined chin. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her fingers twitched as though she was itching to take a more active part.

“I’m particularly curious about the stomach contents,” she said.

“When we have the analysis, I’ll call,” Reinholdt promised. To the pathologist, he said, “Be careful with the liquid from the lungs. We want to know where that water came from.”

Time passed, and the process became a little less unsettling. David had grown accustomed to the odor. He found that if he stared at one body part at a time, he could forget that this was a whole person who once had a life.

Across the room, he saw Weathers and the uniformed cop leaving. Hah! He’d beaten them. He’d toughed it out. David felt like a forensic pathology ace. Go ahead and toss me that spleen, I can handle it!

Blair glanced over her shoulder at him, and David flashed an “okay” sign. He was cool.

Reinholdt had the scalpel again. He made an incision at the hairline. David instinctively turned away. He heard the whine of a Stryker saw, then the grinding noise as the blade hit the solid bone of the skull.

This part of the autopsy was why Weathers and his companion had left. They knew what was coming. David, in his naiveté, thought the worst was over.

Though he didn’t want to wimp out and disappoint Blair, there was no way he’d turn around and take a peek. His imagination told him plenty.

“David?” Blair was standing beside him.

He whipped around to face her. Her hands, in the latex gloves, were bloody. He concentrated on her green eyes. “Hi.”

“I think you were correct,” she said in a low voice. “This murder was the work of the Fisherman.”

If he hadn’t been afraid of losing his lunch, he would have grinned. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Stomach contents.”

“We’ll know after analysis.”

Behind her left shoulder, Reinholdt was doing something at the victim’s head. David raised one hand to his eyes, shielding his vision.

Blair glanced at the big clock on the wall over the door. “We should try to get over to Adam’s office before six. Are you ready to leave?”

“Way ahead of you.”

Chapter Four

The office for Colorado Crime Consultants was west of Denver in Golden, a small town nestled against the foothills. Blair hadn’t done much talking on the drive. Her mind was preoccupied, focused on the autopsy she’d just witnessed. Her reading of the medical findings told her this “clean kill” was performed by the same perp who’d committed the earlier crimes. Yet there were differences—most obviously, the fish hook scars on the abdomen.

The Fisherman was taunting them, sending a message. But why? And what was he trying to say? The answers weren’t evident in forensic analysis. Pursuing this investigation might require old-fashioned police work—interviewing witnesses and suspects.

Speaking of old-fashioned forensic police work, she had confided in Dr. Reinholdt before they left the Coroner’s Office, telling him about the stinky fish in the trunk of her car. He had taken her car keys and would notify the forensic investigators though neither of them expected to find fingerprints on a trout.

David found a parking space just off the main street with its quaint, Old West atmosphere, and they strolled down a covered sidewalk toward the opposite corner. “We’re like a couple of tourists,” he said.

“But we’re not here to shop.” She paused to peer in the storefront window of a candle shop. The smell of scented wax wafted through the open door. “I wonder if we can get access to the forensics gathered by the Denver PD and CID on the current investigation.”

“Doubtful,” David said. “Detective Weathers doesn’t seem inclined to share with me.”

“Well, of course not,” she said. “You’re from the press. Even worse than that, you’re an investigative reporter. Speaking on behalf of everyone in forensics and the cops, your people can be a major distraction.”

“My people? You make it sound like we’re a tribe of hyenas.”

“An apt analogy.”

“You think I’m a dog?”

She peeked up at him and grinned. He looked much better now than during the autopsy. The color had returned to his face, and his gaze was steady. “If you were a dog,” she asked, “what breed would you be?”

“Something macho. Maybe an Irish wolfhound.”

“Macho?” she teased. “Like you were in the autopsy suite?”

“Hey, it took guts to hang in there.” He linked his arm with hers and started along the sidewalk again. “Guts probably isn’t the best word to describe watching an autopsy. Fortitude. I showed fortitude. I should get a Boy Scout badge for fortitude.”

“Didn’t you find the process interesting?”

“In a word…no!”

“At least you’re honest.”

“And I should get another badge for that.” He turned right at the corner and started up the block. “How about you, Blair? What kind of dog would you be?”

“Not a poodle,” she said quickly. Nothing fluffy or cute. “A dog that likes swimming. Maybe a Labrador retriever.”

“Most of the Labs I’ve known have been a little wild. Is that you? Wild and exuberant?”

She hadn’t been crazy and out of control in years, certainly not after her accident. And before that? Her career left very little time for fun and games. She’d gone directly from college to med school, then an internship and field research. “Maybe I’m not wild, but the potential for exuberance is there.”

“That’s something I’d like to see.” His voice slipped into a lower register. “The wanton, uncontrolled, passionate side of Dr. Blair Weston.”

His intimate tone suggested passion in the bedroom. And, when she confronted his sexy blue eyes, similar thoughts popped inside her head. All too easily, she imagined discarded clothing at the foot of the bed. She and David, meshed together on the sheets. Their legs entwined. Their arms grasping and clawing at each other. Their lungs screaming with unfettered lust. Oh, my.

She pushed open the gate in the white picket fence surrounding a gingerbread Victorian house that had been converted to office space. The sidewalk was flagstone, lined by a border of yellow dahlias and pansies. On the veranda, David opened the door to the charming yellow house with white trim. Inside was a foyer with hardwood floors, an imitation Persian rug and several potted ferns. Colorado Crime Consultants was the first door to the right.

Behind the antique front desk sat Molly Griffith. If she’d been a dog, Blair guessed Molly would have the looks of an Afghan hound with her long neck and swoop of straight, blond hair, but her personality was pure terrier—quick, smart and tenacious.

After she greeted them, Molly held up her wristwatch and announced, “One minute until six o’clock. End of the day.”

Blair asked, “Do you have a quitting time or does Adam make you stay all night?”

“I’m flexible.” She bent down, opened her bottom desk drawer and removed a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Sometimes I don’t come in until noon. Sometimes I leave at two. Time is unimportant to me. Not like Adam. He’s predictable as a metronome.”

She poured three fingers of Jack Daniels into a plain glass tumbler. “In precisely ten seconds, he’ll open the door to his office and come out here for his evening drink.”

“Why?” Blair asked. “Something to do with the Marines?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s just Adam.”

The wooden door to an inner office opened, and Adam Briggs stepped through. His right hand was outstretched. He grasped the tumbler and took a sip.

“Told you,” Molly said. “This is the most predictable man on the planet.”

With a hint of a smile, he said, “Structure leads to productivity.”

“Or terminal boredom.”

As he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, Adam regarded her with an expression of fond indulgence. These two had worked together since the inception of Crime Consultants. He was the brains, and she was the heart. They made a good team.

Adam asked his office manager, “Do you have the information for Blair and David?”

“I picked up the last bit this afternoon,” Molly said. “From Gary O’Hara. For an FBI guy he’s kinda cute. Is he married?”

“Not your type,” Adam said.

“He’s got a pulse. That’s about all I require these days.” Molly nudged Blair. “I’m not getting any younger.”

“Gary O’Hara,” David repeated the name. “He was the FBI Special Agent assigned to the Fisherman investigation five years ago. I thought he’d left Denver.”

“He was reassigned to Langley,” Adam said. “He’s been back here since the first of the year.”

“What kind of information did you get from him?”

“Copies of his personal notes on the prior murders.” Adam took another taste of his drink. “We won’t get data on the current investigation, but the past is a closed case. Therefore, it’s relatively accessible.”

Molly stepped out from behind her desk and led the way toward another closed door at the rear of their office. “I put everything back here in the conference room. O’Hara’s notes. Partial transcript from the trial. Newspaper clippings. Interviews. Web site information.”

“Impressive,” David said. “You’re thorough.”

“I’m just the collection point,” she said. “We have a couple of researchers who work for us on a volunteer basis, including a former court reporter who knows how to navigate that system. Shh, don’t tell anybody about her.”

Blair and David stepped into a conference room. Above wainscoting, the walls were painted a deep red. Framed maps hung from the walls. At the end of the polished table sat a large cardboard box with a lid.

Molly stood at the doorway. “Would either of you like something to drink?”

“I’ll have what Adam’s having,” David said.

“Water for me,” Blair said.

“I’ll get it.” Molly turned toward the outer office and glanced impatiently toward her boss. “Come on, Adam. We’re waiting.”

He sauntered up beside her. “Don’t rush me.”

Molly planted her fists on her hips and tossed her head, flipping a wing of blond hair out of her eyes. “Any particular reason you’re dragging your feet?”

“As you know, Molly—” he tasted Jack again “—I only have one drink a day and…”

“You like to savor,” she finished his sentence. “It’s the slow burn and the aftertaste.”

“Exactly.” He drained the liquid from the tumbler and handed the glass to her. As he seated himself at the head of the table, he turned to Blair. “Tell me about the autopsy.”

“Manner of death—homicide,” she said. “Cause of death was drowning. No evidence of sexual assault. Contusions on wrists and ankles indicated that hands and feet had been bound.”

She explained the postmortem marking on the stomach and concluded, “We’ll know more after analysis on the water from the lungs and the stomach contents.”

“What do you expect?” Adam asked.

“If this is the Fisherman or a copycat who is conversant with the particulars of the prior murders, the drowning will have been in a bathtub. The stomach contents will reveal Godiva chocolate.”

“Is there a significance to the candy?”

“Me,” Blair said. “After I was assigned to the first murder, every victim was fed that particular brand of chocolate. It’s my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” Molly said. “Are you sure that’s significant?”

“My nickname at the Coroner’s Office was Lady Godiva,” she said. “And it wasn’t because of riding naked on horseback.”

“There’s a direct threat to you?” Adam exchanged a worried look with David. “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I,” David said. “If I’d been aware that Blair might be a target, I never would have wanted her to be involved.”

Molly placed their beverages on the table and Blair drank deeply of the cold bottled water. Now might be the time to mention the threat from this afternoon—the gutted trout in her car. But she was reluctant to take that step. She didn’t want the investigation to be about her vulnerability.

“Are you in danger?” Adam asked.

“I’m not sure.” She turned to David. “You’ve reported on a lot of these cases. How do people know when they’re really and truly in danger?”

“Some don’t,” he said, “until the ax falls.”

“Why not?”

“Lack of imagination,” he said.

That certainly wasn’t her problem. It only took a lowering of his voice for her to leap into a full-blown fantasy of lovemaking. “I don’t suffer from that lack. Much of my work as an M.E. is based on an ability to imagine what might have happened.”

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