One of the dumber stunts he’d ever pulled, Sean acknowledged as he made his way through the shadows at the back of the units situated on the crest of Red Mountain.
These apartments, including Jenna’s, were not only the largest and most luxurious within the prestigious complex, they occupied the premier location as well, a spectacular view of the city spread out in front of them. Positioned as they were, however, their back patios edged a steep and rocky incline, meaning there wasn’t a lot of room to maneuver covertly.
All it would take would be for someone to look out as he crossed beneath a back deck or for some dog to raise the alarm. Given the state of hysteria rampant among the occupants of the area, someone might very well shoot first and ask questions later. After all, this was a state known for its high percentage of gun ownership.
The trek would be worth the risk if it kept the man he believed would even now be watching Jenna’s apartment from spotting him. Maybe worrying about that was a case of trying to close the barn door after the horse had escaped, but he had no other choice. Not if he were to have any chance of taking the killer unaware.
And he was still convinced Jenna Kincaid represented the best way to do that. If the box she’d called him about was connected to the murders—as far-fetched as that seemed—then he’d have proof beyond any shadow of doubt that he was right.
In that case, the moral dilemma would be in deciding whether or not to send her straight to Bingham with whatever the killer had left. If he did, the detective would know she was being stalked. There would be no more arguments from the police about not having enough manpower to offer her protection.
And if they do, you lose your best chance of catching Makaela’s killer.
He closed his mind to the implications, concentrating on making it to Jenna’s apartment with enough stealth to escape detection. Even if no one took a potshot at him, they still might pick up the phone and dial 911. Although a resident might normally be hesitant to make that call, he would bet no one would think twice about doing it tonight.
Since the back doors weren’t marked, at least not in any way he could see, he’d begun counting from the end apartment. If he made a mistake and knocked on the wrong door, he’d probably give someone a heart attack. Considering the terrain, it was doubtful the inhabitants of these particular luxury units ever had back-door visitors.
Hoping he’d counted right, he crossed the neat brick patio behind what he believed was A-12. Wrought-iron furniture, in some kind of aged-metal finish, had been set among carefully landscaped terraces. A fountain and the small pond it fed were empty in a concession to the cold. The rest of the year they would provide a soothing backdrop to a peaceful retreat.
Almost unconsciously he compared this to the backyard of the rental house where he lived. Its trampled patch of yard contained a secondhand swing set and a turtle sandbox. If he had needed anything else to remind him of the gap between Jenna Kincaid’s life and his…
And why the hell would you even be thinking about that?
Angry for allowing himself to be sidetracked—even momentarily—from what he’d come down here to do, he rapped once on the solid wood of her back door. Before he could bring his hand back to strike again, it opened.
Jenna was wearing the same clothes she’d worn at the police station. Her eyes were wide and dark in a face that was a couple of shades paler than it had been the last time he’d seen her. So much so that he wondered if, despite having called him, she might already have opened the box to discover what he suspected would be inside.
He pushed his way in, conscious of her nearness as they literally brushed shoulders. The same sexual awareness he’d experienced when he’d taken her arm at the precinct tightened his groin.
Not the time nor the place, he told himself, just as he had then. And certainly not the woman.
The admonition had as little effect on his physical response to her as it had then. Despite the increasingly obvious gap between their circumstances, he’d been attracted to Jenna Kincaid from the moment he’d first seen her.
That would be Dr. Kincaid to you, Murphy. Why can’t you get that through your thick Irish skull?
Even if he hadn’t undertaken a mission that demanded every bit of experience and skill he possessed, thinking about the differences between them, and wondering how he could ever bridge them, should be discouragement enough. No matter how strong his attraction.
Despite the fact he was more than a little rough around the edges, he’d never had trouble making a connection with any woman he wanted. His reluctance to try with Dr. Kincaid was more the result of his realization that even if she was, by some stretch of the imagination, interested as well, he wasn’t sure he could keep her interested.
With the strength of the sexual pull he felt, that was a chance he wasn’t willing to take. Not now. Not with everything else going on.
He watched as she closed the door, engaging the dead bolt and then replacing the security chain. When she turned, he could sense her tension, vibrating beneath the surface of her composure like a tuning fork that had been struck. It was obvious she was holding herself together by sheer willpower.
Grudgingly, he admitted he was impressed. Most women would have been hysterical by now.
Another mark in her favor. Not that she gave a damn whether or not he was handing those out.
However well she was handling this, she was only a distraction to what he’d come here to do. “Where is it?”
The harshness of his tone reflected the dichotomy of his feelings. Thankfully, she’d have no way of knowing that.
“On the counter.” She looked past him, lifting her chin in that direction.
He turned and realized the box was exactly as she’d described it over the phone. The red satin ribbon, tied neatly into a bow on top, gleamed invitingly in the glare from the light above the sink.
In spite of its innocent appearance, the same anxiety he had sensed in Jenna flared within his chest. If this had been left by Makaela’s killer, then no matter how macabre its contents, it was a link to his sister.
To her death. And to her suffering.
He wondered if Jenna was aware of the trophies that had been taken from each of the bodies. She must have been, he realized, or she would have opened this by now. If not, she would have had no reason to suspect the box was anything other than what it appeared.
“Could be a Christmas present.”
His suggestion had been an attempt to delay the inevitable. Right now he was no more eager to untie that ribbon than Jenna obviously had been.
“In my refrigerator?”
“Something perishable.”
Which was, of course, exactly what he feared.
The sense of dread that thought evoked nauseated him, but there seemed to be no other reason to put this where it had been found. He jerked his mind away from the possibility he’d been considering.
There was really no point in speculating on what the package contained. Either he opened it and found out, or he called the cops. Either way, he would know soon enough. And so would she. Probably before either of them really wanted to.
“Any idea how long it’s been there?”
“The last time I can remember opening the door was Monday night. I think I would have seen it if it had been there then.”
But she wasn’t certain. So any time since Monday. And in actuality, maybe sometime before. Of course, if this were what he believed it was, given the timing of the Cummings girl’s disappearance…
He resisted the urge to relieve his growing tension by expelling several quick breaths through his pursed lips. That was what he always did before his unit went into action. A stress-release mechanism that was both habit and talisman.
Of course, the woman beside him would probably think he’d lost his mind. Again, he questioned himself angrily, What the hell would it matter if she did?
Surprisingly, he discovered it did. Despite the almost constant animosity between them, he didn’t want to look like a fool in front of Jenna Kincaid.
The sensation was so foreign to his normal attitude about women that it took him a moment to identify what he was feeling. Another to understand why.
That was surprising, too, although it probably shouldn’t have been. Jenna Kincaid was a desirable woman. One who, despite his initial impression, was both smart and courageous. Two qualities he’d learned to value in his life.
He pulled his eyes away from hers to look back at the box. It wasn’t going away, no matter how long he delayed.
“Gloves?”
“What?”
“You have any gloves? Plastic ones, preferably.”
“I think…” She started forward and then stopped as if reluctant to get closer to the box. “I think there are some under the sink. The maid uses them.”
The maid. She was definitely the kind who would have one, he thought with a touch of bitterness. Anybody who could afford this apartment would.
And just as his mother hadn’t to the people she’d worked for, Dr. Kincaid’s hired help didn’t seem to have a name. Just “the maid.”
“Would you get them, please?”
He understood why she didn’t want to. If she hadn’t made the comment about who used the gloves, he would have retrieved them himself.
But she had. And so he didn’t. A petty revenge that he acknowledged.
She glanced at him again, a quick look under her lashes, before she refocused on the other side of the room. Her lips tightened, but she didn’t argue.
She crossed the ceramic tile floor, her heels clicking in the apartment’s well-insulated stillness. She didn’t look at the counter where the box sat, but homed in on the cabinet under the sink. She opened it and located what he’d asked for by spinning a carousel that held cleaning supplies, neat and well ordered—probably the job of “the maid.” Then she turned, holding a pair of yellow plastic gloves out to him.
Once more she’d passed the challenge. And had made him feel like a jackass in the process. All without saying a word.
He walked over and took the gloves from her hand. As he did, his fingers grazed hers. The same jolt of awareness was back again. Stronger than before.
This hadn’t been part of the plan. Sometimes nature, however, in the guise of testosterone, trumped intellect and intent. Even his.
“Thanks,” he said brusquely, an attempt to destroy this very different kind of tension.
Her eyes were still wide and dark, but now there was a flush of color along her cheekbones. Seeing it, his arousal strengthened.
It was pretty obvious by her blush that she knew exactly what he was experiencing. Women usually did.
Neither of them had time for this, even if they had the inclination. And he didn’t know that she did. He only knew that he shouldn’t.
Jenna Kincaid was his ace in the hole. And if he allowed himself to become involved with her…
Mentally backing away from the possibility, he deliberately broke the contact between them by turning to look at the beribboned box. The bow was a simple one, tied like a child’s shoelace. The kind that could be undone by pulling on one side.
There were no visible wires. No tape. No oily stains that might indicate plastic explosives.
It still looked exactly like what his first impression of it had been. A gift. One obviously intended for Jenna. And all he had to do to find out what was inside was to pull the end of that narrow ribbon.
“Step back.”
“What?” Her tone was sharply questioning.
“Step away from the counter.”
“You think it’s going to explode?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because I said so.”
She laughed, the sound short. “Sorry. You’re going to have to do better than that. That one hasn’t worked since I was five.”
“Okay. How about I want to check out what’s inside without having you looking over my shoulder while I do it?”
“This is my apartment. And that—” she nodded again toward the box “—was left inside my refrigerator. Because of that, I’m going to assume it’s something that was intended for me. At least for me to see.”
The last phrase had been less confident. Maybe she had begun to figure out some of the possibilities. After all, she was a psychologist. Despite her initial disclaimer, she knew more than the average person would about serial killers.
“Suit yourself.”
He laid one of the pair of gloves she’d handed him on the counter and then tried to slip his right hand into the other. Whoever the maid was, her hands were obviously a hell of a lot smaller than his. He turned the cuff back until he could insert his fingers into the openings designed for them.
Then, expelling one long breath, he reached over and, taking the end of the ribbon between his gloved thumb and index finger, tugged on it. The satin slipped free of its knot, the other side falling onto the counter.
He carefully laid the end he’d pulled down, straightening it with one finger as he considered his next move. Although he didn’t look back, he was aware that in spite of his injunction, Jenna was leaning forward, putting herself into position to look into the box when he opened it.
Realizing that he’d forgotten to breathe during the past few seconds, he took another breath, this one slightly unsteady. Then, before he had time to change his mind, he reached out with the same two fingers he’d used to untie the ribbon. Still holding his breath, he gripped the lid and lifted it up and away from the box.