Читать книгу: «Ambushed At Christmas»

Chapter One

Homicide Detective Leah Cordon jogged along the familiar path of the Trinity River Trail in Fort Worth, Texas. She was halfway through her run and a cold front had arrived, causing a frigid gust of wind to penetrate the terry hoodie she wore.

December weather in Texas could drop from high sixty-degree temperatures to well below freezing in half an hour. She pushed her pace to increase her heart rate in order to stave off the next couple of blasts.

Leah reached up to tug on the rubber band taming her normally unruly locks and freed her hair from a ponytail in hopes that it would provide a little extra insulation. The loose-fitting hood wouldn’t stay put so she didn’t bother pulling it over her head. Instead, she zipped her lightweight vest up to the neck. She didn’t like the idea of blocking access to her Glock, which was something she hadn’t considered needing on her nightly run until a woman had been murdered near this very spot last night.

At ten o’clock the sky was covered with rolling gray clouds, blocking out all moonlight. She was entering the stretch of trail where trees thickened and there was little artificial light.

“Bad Medicine” by Bon Jovi rocked through her left earbud. She always kept one ear clear in order to listen for faster runners, bikers or in-line skaters. Fatalities with pedestrians who were distracted by earbuds and cell phones were rising at a dizzying pace, especially at intersections. But now she felt the need to listen for a predator.

Leah tugged at her covered thumbholes to hold her sleeves in place over her base layer.

Keeping her pace, she considered turning back for a split second as the exact spot that the woman was pulled off the trail last night and brutally murdered came into focus. Crime scene tape roped off the section of trees where she’d been found fifteen feet off the trail.

A dozen temporarily placed lamps illuminated the path ahead.

The feeling of eyes watching her pricked the hairs on the back of her neck. A cold chill raced down her spine. She blamed it on the cold front, the area. Even so, the creepy feeling took hold.

Looking ahead, a yellow haze from the streetlamp covered a fifteen-foot radius. She stood outside its glow, breath coming in rasps. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell, turning down the volume.

Leaves rustled just ahead. Movement seemed too deep in the underbrush to be caused by gusting winds. They’d died down for the moment.

Leah stopped, pulled out the left earbud and studied the area as best she could in the dim light. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see decently. More movement ramped up her pulse. She immediately unzipped her lightweight vest in case quick access to her weapon was needed. And then a single low-hanging tree branch rustled. Her eyes tracked the movement. Her heart stuttered and her hand came up to rest on the butt of the Glock holstered inside her vest.

A rabbit scrambled out of the brush, caught eyes with her for a second and then darted off in the opposite direction.

That bunny had really gotten her heart going. Leah breathed a sigh of relief, loosening her grip on the handle.

Normally, on this stretch of trail she would’ve long since hit her stride and whizzed past without giving her surroundings much thought. Her police training had taught her to observe her environment but last night’s homicide had her second-guessing being on this trail in the first place.

She’d be damned if she let her fears rule. Her mind tried to flash back to the past but she forced it on the path ahead. She might not have been able to control what had happened in her youth but she could decide her focus now. She searched the area one more time before replacing her left earbud, drowning out her racing thoughts with the heavy drumbeat and raucous guitar threads.

Tucking her chin to her chest, she balled her fists and started off again. This time, she ignored the eyes-on-her shiver pricking her skin and pushed her legs harder. Running into the spot of last night’s attack was most likely the reason for her case of the heebie-jeebies. An innocent bunny had caused her to jump nearly out of her skin. What would be next? A squirrel?

The sound of footsteps behind her caused her heart to stutter again. She whirled around, running backward a few steps in time to see another jogger. His hood was on, his chin to his chest, and his gait had military precision. A pair of white cords bounced in front of his hoodie that combined into one string midway down his chest.

The runner glanced up, gave a slight wave and then increased his speed until he passed her. The squirrels weren’t getting to her but other runners were. Leah gave herself a mental head shake. Keep it up and she’d have to abandon her late-night runs until she could get her act together.

Stats kept spinning through Leah’s mind despite the loud music thumping in her left ear. Jillian Mitchell, the victim, was five feet seven inches tall. So was Leah.

Jillian Mitchell had espresso-brown hair that had been in a ponytail last night. Same as Leah.

Jillian Mitchell had a runner’s build, meaning she was pretty much all legs. Just like Leah. The killer had severed her right ankle before dragging her into the bushes.

The flashback to high school when Leah’s best friend had been brutally murdered edged into her thoughts. Leah was supposed to sneak out to meet up. She’d fallen asleep instead. The crime had rocked their exclusive white-collar Arlington Heights neighborhood.

Forcing her thoughts to the present, to the trail, she was grateful that lights had been set up in the normally dark stretch known as Porter’s Bend for the curvy pathway. That was a comfort. Leah tried to reestablish her pace. She had almost cleared the winding patch when she caught a glimpse of a man crouching near the brush. He was at the edge of the crime scene tape area and down on all fours. Even at this distance Leah could see that he had substantial size.

Leah slowed to a walk but her heart pounded her ribs as though she’d turned up her speed. She assessed the situation and quickly realized there was no one else around. She bit back a curse as she palmed her cell. She started to fire off a text to dispatch, noting a suspicious person at the scene of Porter’s Bend.

A mix of adrenaline and fear shot through her. Had the murderer returned to the crime scene? Was the person who’d attacked and murdered Jillian Mitchell digging in the shrubs?

Reason argued against the notion. Only an idiot would come back this soon. The criminal who’d murdered Jillian didn’t strike Leah as stupid. He had to know tensions were running high after last night’s attack. People would be on the lookout for anyone or anything suspicious in the area and along the trail. Those were the reasons she’d used when she’d convinced herself to stick to her nightly routine and go on the run.

If she’d been on time last night, it could’ve been her in the morgue and not Jillian Mitchell, a little voice in the back of her head stated. She couldn’t use rock music to block out the voice now.

Leah’s fingers were as cold as ice cubes thanks to the frigid air. She flexed and released them a couple of times before placing her hand on the butt of her still-holstered weapon. She’d stick around until an officer arrived.

Confronting this guy without backup would be taking an unnecessary risk. Leah decided it would be best to put enough distance between them to stay out of sight. As she eased back a few steps, the man popped to his feet and wheeled around to face her.

She sidestepped behind a tree. Anything—even a tree trunk—between them would slow down a bullet if he had a gun. It might not provide complete protection but it was better than nothing.

“Hold it right there,” she shouted, using the authoritative cop voice reserved for all threatening situations. “I’m a police officer. Don’t take one step closer. Hands where I can see them now.”

“I’m not moving.” True to his word, he froze. His hands flew into the air, palms facing her. She scanned them for any signs of a weapon and could see that they were empty. Well, almost empty. On closer examination, he wore plastic gloves. A knot formed in her stomach, braiding her lining.

Experience had taught her that empty hands didn’t mean there was no weapon present. A bullet had grazed her shin during her sophomore year as a patrol officer on a domestic violence call that had seemingly come out of nowhere. She tabled the glove-wearing part for now, careful not to reveal her suspicion that he was the Porter’s Bend Killer.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to steady her heart rate and keep a clear head.

“Take it easy.” The man was tall. Six feet four inches if Leah had to guess. Through his unzipped denim jacket she could see that he worked out. His muscled thighs had stretched and released as he stood. His thick sandy blond hair was tightly clipped with curls at the edges. He was too far for her to see the color of his eyes but his face was all sharp angles, like the kind that looked a little too good on a billboard in a major city. He seemed familiar. Did she know him?

“What are you looking for?” she asked, trying to dig for a little more information. If he was a criminal—and specifically the one her department was looking for—the more she got him talking, the more chances he had to make a slip.

“My keys,” he said. His voice was masculine. The kind that sounded like it was used to being in charge of a situation.

“What’s in your front right pocket?” she asked. “I see something.”

“I, uh—” He didn’t glance down and that told her he knew exactly where his keys were. It wasn’t uncommon for a perp to return to the scene of a crime but normally they came with search parties when the victim was missing. Jillian Mitchell had very much been found.

“Save the story.” She leveled her gaze on the man. “What are you really looking for?”

“What did you say your name was?” he shot back.

“I didn’t.”

“Then we have nothing left to say.” He turned his back to her.

There was no way she’d shoot without being provoked but this maneuver said he knew it.

“Stop right there,” she warned.

“And if I don’t?” he asked.

“What are the gloves for?” She used her cop voice to show him just how serious she was.

He froze.

“You better start talking here unless you want to do it downtown. We can start with your name,” she continued.

“It’s cold. These were all I had in the glove box,” he said.

She didn’t immediately answer. He was being bold, challenging her. Perhaps he was an amateur crime solver or someone hired by the Mitchell family. They had money.

Either way, this guy could be trampling on evidence.

“Detective Cordon,” she relented, leaving off the bit about being a newly minted detective. She lowered her weapon. “Identify yourself now or they’ll do it for you at Tarrant County Jail.”

He turned around and she nodded toward the badge clipped to the waistline of her jogging pants.

His eyes lingered there a little longer than she was comfortable and heat flushed her cheeks. That was the great part about having skin the color of milk. It was near impossible to hide her emotions.

“Deacon Kent,” he said. Why did that name sound familiar?

“Do you have any knowledge of the crime committed here last night?”

“Only what I read in the Fort Worth Star Telegram this morning.” His voice was calm.

There could be benefits to publicity on a case. Leah didn’t like it in this instance. Stories spawned copycats and brought out all kinds of wackos. In Mr. Kent, she saw neither and that could mean he was close to Jillian Mitchell, looking for vigilante justice.

This case set Leah’s nerves on edge. The brutality of the attack made it look like a revenge killing. Not to mention this had happened on her trail. Leah matched the description of the victim, which had happened in cases before but always gave her the prickly sensation of a cat walking over a grave.

She couldn’t count how many times her well-being had been threatened by jerks she’d arrested while on the job. But the thought of someone actually trying to make good didn’t sit well.

“The Telegram reports on crime every day. You show up at every crime scene?” she asked Mr. Kent.

He hesitated in answering and that meant one thing.

Deacon Kent was hiding something.

DEACON FIGURED HE’D better come clean with the detective. The woman picked him apart with her gaze. “That’s the only reason I’m here. The story in the paper. And, no, I don’t show up at crime scenes uninvited.”

Her brow shot up. The detective’s long wavy hair—the color of richly blended coffee—fell well past her shoulders, framing a face too delicate for the badge clipped on her hip. At a little more than five and a half feet tall, wearing jogging pants that hugged a taut figure, her gaze said she was a force to be reckoned with.

“What made you come out tonight?” she asked.

He let that one go.

“I can drag you down to the station to talk if you’d be more comfortable,” she said in more of a hiss.

That may be true, but Deacon wasn’t doing anything wrong. He hadn’t technically trespassed on a crime scene. He’d made certain not to cross the obvious area cordoned off with police tape. Even he could see that being there feeling around on the ground made him look suspicious.

“Before you get any ideas—” he paused to double-check that she wasn’t a trigger-happy detective “—can I put my hands down now?”

“No. In fact, up against the tree. Hands where I can see ’em,” she said, using that authoritative law enforcement voice he was all too familiar with, considering his cousin was the sheriff of Broward County. Experience had taught him not to argue with that voice and he couldn’t deny that he had been crawling around in the bushes at a crime scene. He’d known getting caught would be a possibility, even though he thought he’d checked out the area well enough before dropping down on all fours.

“Okay.” He kept his hands high as he walked toward the nearest tree trunk. “Let’s take it easy. I’m not the guy you’re looking for, so there’s no need to get hysterical.”

Detective Cordon issued a grunt sound.

For a split second he thought she might have been involved in a sting operation. The detective matched the basic description of the woman who’d been attacked at this very spot last night.

He glanced around for any signs of a stakeout. But then, wouldn’t another officer have made him or herself known by now?

“Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” he asked, figuring it couldn’t hurt.

“Right now? I’m patting you down,” she countered. Her voice had a throaty note and he detected the shift in tone the moment she put her hands on him—hands that sent inappropriate sensations firing from each point of contact.

In this cold, and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees in the last fifteen minutes, he should have been shivering. Warmth shot through him and it had everything to do with the electricity coming from the detective’s touch.

“I’d noticed.” She’d figure it out but he decided to add, “I’m not packing heat and I don’t have any other weapons.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He’d expected her response to be something to that effect.

As she resumed patting him down, more annoying sensations fired up. They had no business in this situation so he ignored them.

“Turn around,” she stated, using that cop voice again.

This also wasn’t the time to notice the perfume she wore as he wheeled around to face her. At least, he guessed it was cologne. He’d never smelled anything like it before. If he were pressed for a description, he might have said it was like walking in the meadow after a cool spring shower with the first rays of sun hitting the land, waking the flowers.

Deacon mentally shook off the head trip.

“Keep your hands where I can see ’em.” She studied him. Their gazes held for a second longer than courtesy dictated. A blush crawled across her cheeks and it was damn sexy when her cheeks flamed.

Way to stay focused.

Finished with the weapons check, she took a step back. “You’re cleared.”

“Like I already told you.” Deacon wanted this over with so he could get back to searching the area.

“This is the scene of a murder investigation.” The detective almost leveled him with her stare, which took some doing with someone as hardened as him.

“Why are you really here?”