Читать книгу: «Christmas Crime in Colorado»

With love to the handsome and brilliant

Finn Hayden Bergstrom-Glaser.

And, as always, to Rick.

Chapter One

In early December, night came quickly to the snowcovered hills and valleys of the high Rockies. The sunset faded. Dusk blew across the land, bending the bare branches of white aspens and tall pines. Stars began to appear. Outside her A-frame house, Brooke Johnson stood beside her Jeep station wagon and listened to the sibilant breeze. Shush, shush, time to rest, to sleep, to heal. Shush.

Less than four months ago, she’d packed up and moved from Atlanta to Aspen, Colorado. Leaving behind friends and a corporate job in human resources, she sought solace in the big-shouldered Rockies where no one knew her history. Her ex-husband Thomas. His infidelities. Her restraining orders. The miscarriage. The humiliation of a marriage gone terribly wrong.

In Aspen, Brooke hoped to make a fresh start at age thirty-two. Though she’d only visited Colorado twice before, she thought of the mountains as a natural paradise—a Shangrila where the air was clean and dreams came true. She’d found a job at a boutique and spent a sizable chunk of her savings on the security deposit for this furnished A-frame nestled on the sunny side of a canyon. From where she stood, she could only see the rooftops of two other houses. Both were vacant during the week, used only on weekends and holidays when the families came up to ski. She liked the solitude, the silence behind the wind. But the magnificence of the Aspen environs came at a steep price; the astronomical rent meant that Brooke had to have a roommate.

And that was her current problem: her roommate, Sally Klinger.

When they first met, Sally joked about how lucky they were to have the same build, same coloring and same long, dark auburn hair and blue eyes.

“Why lucky?” Brooke had asked.

“Because all the clothes that look good on you will suit me just fine!”

Sally took their physical similarity as an open invitation to help herself to Brooke’s wardrobe. Brooke quickly realized that this was a minor annoyance compared to Sally’s constant cursing, her blaring music and her clutter—magazines, dirty dishes, shoes and clothes—strewn with abandon around the house. Not to mention her herd of boyfriends, some of whom felt free to wander through the house in nothing more than boxer shorts.

Brooke had spoken to her dozens of times to no effect. This roommate thing just wasn’t working. Sally had to go.

Standing on the long, level driveway that branched off from the steep road leading up the side of the canyon, Brooke glared toward the A-frame. Every light was lit, including the lamp in her own bedroom—a probable indication that her roommate had been “borrowing” more clothes. Sally’s SUV was parked facing the road, ready to zoom the roughly twelve miles into town to troll for ski bums and beer.

Tonight, Brooke would tell her roommate that she’d had enough. She hadn’t escaped from her ex-husband only to fall into another abusive living arrangement. Even though Sally was only a roommate, Brooke intended to break up with her. It had to be done.

She turned the handle on the back door which was, of course, unlocked in spite of Sally’s promise to keep the place secure. As soon as Brooke stepped inside, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. It smelled even worse than usual in here. The kitchen counter was littered with beer bottles and two plates with half-eaten sandwiches. Two plates. Very likely, Sally was upstairs in her bedroom with yet another boyfriend.

Dropping her backpack amid the junk on the kitchen table, Brooke listened. Instead of the usual screeches of passion that indicated Sally was entertaining, she heard silence. No music. No TV. Not even the sound of Sally yakking.

“Sally? Are you home?”

She had to be here. Her car was parked outside.

“Sally?”

Brooke entered the living room where the sloped ceiling peaked at the top of the A. She stopped short. Denim-clad legs and bare feet dangled above her head. Sally hung by her neck from a rope.

Brooke stumbled backward, banging into the sofa. Her gut clenched, and she doubled over. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

It was only an illusion—her mind had to be playing tricks on her. Her anger at Sally had somehow caused this waking nightmare.

She didn’t want Sally dead, only gone from her house. Brooke forced herself to breathe slowly, the way her therapist had shown her as a way to control her fears. Slowly, inhale and exhale. She grounded herself. Then, she looked up.

Brooke’s gaze slid down the rope to Sally, who wore a white shirt, jeans and Brooke’s new down vest. On her pale wrist was the delicate Cartier watch Brooke’s father had given her when she graduated from college. She couldn’t see Sally’s face from where she was—her long, auburn hair spilled forward.

A scream clawed up the back of Brooke’s throat, but she held back. Control. I need to control my mind, control my fear. But how could she? Inside her head, rational thought tumbled into an incoherent whirl. She couldn’t make sense of this horror, feeling like she’d stepped onto a movie set where the director would yell “Cut,” and Sally would be fine. Yet she still hung there. Dead weight.

Maybe not dead. Not yet. Though unconscious, Sally might still be alive. The thought spurred Brooke into action. She leapt forward, wrapping her arms around Sally’s legs, trying to boost her up. Her bare feet were icecold. Her body twisted and swung. With a horrible thud, her back hit the wall below the railing.

This wasn’t working; Brooke needed help. In the kitchen, she grabbed her cell phone from her backpack and called 911. While waiting for an answer, she raced back to the front room and climbed the open staircase to the balcony.

When the 911 operator answered, Brooke blurted out, “An ambulance. My roommate. She tried to hang herself.”

“Ma’am, I need your location.”

She rattled off the address as she stared at the knot in the thick, heavy braided rope. She tugged at the loose end that coiled by her feet, then clawed at the tangled snarl looped around the railing. With Sally’s weight pulling the rope taut, there was no way she could untie the knot.

“Stay on the line,” the operator said. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“The rope,” Brooke said. “I have to cut the rope.”

“An ambulance is on the way. Is your roommate conscious? Is she—”

“No.” She went down the staircase, her thick-soled hiking boots jolting her legs with each step. “I know CPR. If I can get her down, I can help her.”

In the kitchen, she pulled a butcher knife from the wood block near the sink. It would take forever to saw through that thick rope with a blade this flimsy. She needed something heavier.

Outside the kitchen door under the eaves was a waisthigh box that held a cord of wood for the fireplace and an ax. She dropped her cell phone on the table and hurried out the back door. Her hands trembled as she hefted the ax onto her shoulder.

Panic magnified her senses. The light above the back door shone with an intense silvery luster—a contrast to the pitch-black shadows of night. Over the rush of her own breathing, she heard a rustling in the branches followed by the crunch of footsteps on the snow. Turning toward the sound, she peered into a thick chokecherry bush that rose higher than the top of her head. “Is someone there?” she asked, her voice unsteady with fear.

The lights from the house reflected in a pair of eyes. No more than fifteen feet away, they stared at her through a bare thicket, then blinked and were gone.

Sheer terror washed over her. Had she actually seen something? Those eyes didn’t even look human.

More loudly, she demanded, “Who’s there?”

The wind blew, and the shadows shifted. She heard no other sound, saw nothing. She had no time to search. Her focus came back to a single purpose: Get Sally down.

Carrying the ax, she ran back into the house, closed the door and locked it behind her. Unable to forget those weirdly shining eyes, she moved cautiously through the galley-style kitchen. Her rational mind was clamoring to be heard over the terror.

Hyperaware of every sound and every shadow, Brooke edged into the front room. The plain, simple furniture didn’t offer many hiding places. She scanned the patterned blue sofas and the rocking chairs by the fireplace. She was dimly aware of a terrible smell, a smell that said there was no rush to get Sally down because she was already gone.

And then she saw him. Silhouetted against the sliding glass doors, he darted across the deck at the front of the house. Then he was gone.

Her pulse hammered. Her blood rushed, and she felt dizzy.

Outside the sliding glass doors, the outline of a man took shape again. Her eyes narrowed in a squint, but she couldn’t see him clearly. The lines of his shoulders shifted like a mirage.

Illusion or reality? Either she was being threatened by an intruder—a killer?—or she’d lost her mind.

The wind blew, and the glass trembled. The man reached for the door handle. She prayed the doors were locked. No such luck. The glass inched open.

“Stay back!” She stepped forward and away from Sally’s dangling legs. Brooke swung the ax in a wide arc. “Don’t come in here!”

She heard a hissing noise. The sound of breathing? He was gasping like the flatlanders who weren’t accustomed to the altitude. He was someone who had come from far away.

Her ex-husband.

That can’t be! I’ve left that part of my life behind. Thomas wouldn’t come here. He wouldn’t dare.

“Show yourself!” she yelled at the man. There was no way she could fight a shadow or a nightmare illusion. If she saw him, she could fight back. Damn it, she had an ax. She wasn’t helpless.

Unless he has a gun.

She crept forward, holding the ax at the ready. The handle slipped in her sweaty palms. She tightened her grip.

A face pressed up against the window. The features were unclear. All she could really see were the eyes—hate-filled eyes glaring into her soul.

No time to think. No point in screaming. She dropped the ax, pivoted and ran. She’d heard his gasps. He was already out of breath. She might be able to outdistance him.

Racing through the kitchen, she glanced at her cell phone on the table. Where the hell was the ambulance? The police? She flipped the lock on the door, grabbed the butcher knife off the counter and dove into the night.

Her hiking boots slowed her down, but the heavy soles had good traction in the packed snow. She ran down the driveway, passing her Jeep. Damn it! Why didn’t I grab my car keys instead of a butcher knife? She wasn’t thinking clearly. Her perceptions were all wrong. That one mistake—knife instead of car keys—could get her killed.

She saw headlights on the road leading up the steep cliff. The car turned at her driveway. It had to be the police. But why weren’t they using the siren?

A bronze SUV pulled in and parked. A tall man in a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans stepped out of the driver’s side.

She whirled and peered back at the well-lit house. The intruder was nowhere in sight. Had she even seen him? She could have imagined him, creating a vision that matched her fears. It wouldn’t be the first time. She hated the fact that she couldn’t always trust her own eyes.

After she left Thomas, she’d had nightmares so intense that she went to a therapist and got a prescription, which seemed to make things worse. More than once, she woke in a cold sweat, screaming. Those vivid, Technicolor illusions felt more tangible than her everyday life. She’d seen danger on every street corner, heard threats in every utterance. Thinking of that terror, she could taste the familiar coppery bite of fear on her tongue. Her lungs ached with the pressure of controlling her panic.

Spinning around, she faced the tall man who stood beside his car. He appeared real. His lips moved, and he spoke.

“What’s the problem?”

If he had to ask, he hadn’t come in response to her 911 call. When he took a step toward her, she held up the knife. “Stay where you are. What’s your name?”

“Michael Shaw.” The glow from his headlights showed a calm, self-assured expression. His face was familiar. “We’ve met. I was hoping you’d remember me,” he said with a hint of a Southern drawl. “I was in your shop this afternoon. You sold me a pair of gloves.”

Indeed, she recalled. And the memory—a reality—grounded her.

Michael Shaw had been the high point of her day. He was tall and lean with eyes the color of jade and a smile that could melt a glacier. She’d been flattered when he leaned across the counter in the boutique and asked her opinion as if he really cared what she thought. They must have talked for fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, his accent reminded her of Atlanta—the one place in the world she wanted to forget.

When he’d asked her out for coffee, she’d treasured the moment but still said no. After Thomas, she’d had enough of smooth-talking Southern gentlemen to last the rest of her lifetime.

“Why are you here?” she demanded. “Did you follow me?”

“Calm down, Brooke. I’m a cop. Remember? I told you this afternoon. I’m a police detective from Birmingham, Alabama.”

She nodded, recalling their conversation. He was a cop. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t a threat. “What do you want from me?”

“We need to talk. I have something important to tell you, and it can’t wait any longer,” he said, his eyes falling on the knife she held.

“That’s why you asked me out.”

“And you turned me down.” He clapped one gloved hand upon his chest. “Nearly broke my heart.”

He took a step toward her, and she pointed the knife directly at his chest. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Okay, Brooke.” He stepped back and paused, studying her. “You want to tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.”

Suspiciously, she studied his handsome features. He seemed not to know what was going on, yet he happened to arrive at her house at this particular moment by pure chance. Could she trust him? After being stalked by her ex, she’d learned not to trust in coincidence. On the other hand, she needed help.

“It’s Sally,” she said. “My roommate.”

“Tell me about Sally.” His voice was steady and reassuring, just the right tone for a cop. Not that she was entirely sure she trusted cops, either. “You don’t have to be afraid. Whatever it is, I’m on your side.”

She stared into the darkness at the end of the driveway. Her ears strained to hear the sound of an approaching siren. “The police are on the way. The real police.”

“Oh, I’m a real officer. If you want, I’ll show you my badge.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Now, take a breath. A long, slow breath. You need to calm down, Brooke.”

His tone irritated her, somehow implying that her terror was silly. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just want you to tell me what’s got you so scared.”

My whole life. But she didn’t have time to explain. She had to cut Sally down, and she needed Michael to help her. “Do you have a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

Aware that she might be making another mistake in judgment, she led Michael to the kitchen door of the A-frame. Was there any hope that Sally could be saved? Of course there was, she told herself.

He held his gun in both hands and pushed open the door with his foot. “Is someone in there with your roommate?”

“I thought I saw him. A face at the window.”

“Stay close to me.”

He entered with the kind of confidence that comes from training, identifying himself loudly and repeatedly as a policeman. His deep voice echoed against the slanted walls of the house. The barrel of his gun was pointed and ready.

When he saw Sally, he paused. “Your roommate?”

“Yes.”

“She looks a lot like you.”

Chapter Two

Reaching up, Michael grasped the wrist of the woman who hung from the heavy rope, trying to find a pulse. Nothing. Not even a flutter. Her skin felt as cold as a gutted trout. She smelled like feces. In his ten years on the Birmingham PD, Michael had only seen one other hanging. But he didn’t need a coroner to tell him this woman was deceased.

He glanced toward Brooke. Though she stood very still with the butcher knife clutched in her fist, her blue eyes were alive, darting in restless panic.

“We need to cut her down,” she said in a shaky voice. “She might just be unconscious. I know CPR.”

He suspected that she already knew her roommate was dead, but he didn’t feel it was the moment to state that painful truth out loud. “You said there was someone else in the house.”

“I think so.” She pointed toward the sliding glass doors. “Over there. I think he was dressed in black.”

“Gloves?”

“I don’t know.”

“How tall?”

“Don’t know. Average.”

“Did you recognize him?” She refused to look directly at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It was all too fast.” Her features twisted in anguish. “I’m not sure he was really there.”

It took guts to admit that she was freaked out, but he hoped her possible delusion wasn’t symptomatic. “Has that happened to you before? Seeing things that aren’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking any medications?”

Her chin lifted. “We don’t have time to talk about any of that. We need to help Sally.”

Whether she was delusional or not, she was in serious denial about Sally’s condition. He wished that he knew more about Brooke Johnson, that he’d taken more time to research her personal history before he’d tracked her down. “First, we need to make sure there’s no one else in the house. I want you to come with me. We’ll start upstairs.”

Holding his gun at the ready, he climbed the staircase with Brooke right behind him. When he pushed open the door to the first bedroom, he saw chaos. Unmade bed. Curtains torn askew. Dirty dishes piled on the bedside table. Clothes draped everywhere. “Could be there was a struggle in here.”

“Actually,” Brooke said, “this is the way it always looks.”

Michael nodded, making a mental note to search Sally’s cluttered desktop later for a suicide note. “Okay, let’s check the other rooms.”

At the opposite end of the open balcony was Brooke’s neat room—a major contrast to the chaos left behind by her roommate. The open door of her closet revealed a neat row of plastic hangers with all the shirts facing the same direction. From the clean surface of her dresser and her desk with a closed laptop to the autumnal quilt on her double bed, this space reflected someone who valued order. When she reached down to straighten the brown rug on the hardwood floor beside the bed, he stopped her.

“Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”

Her spine stiffened as if offended by his statement. “This is my home. It’s supposed to be a place where I feel safe.”

With her thick reddish-brown hair and delicate features, she was a whole lot more attractive than her driver’s license photo. Other than that obvious observation, he didn’t know what to make of Ms. Brooke Johnson. Though she was upset, she hadn’t lost control, which showed an admirable strength of character. On the other hand, she might have seen a man who wasn’t there.

She held herself with an aloof poise. Cool, but not cold—not an ice princess. Earlier today, when he talked to her at that high-priced accessory boutique, she’d been friendly, even laughed at his lame jokes. He’d liked her enough that he’d held off telling her why he sought her out. He had wanted to wait, to build trust. Now, he feared that his hesitation might have proved fatal for her roommate. If he had to guess, he would say that Sally’s death was not a suicide.

The wail of an approaching ambulance siren cut through the night. He looked toward the window. “The paramedics will be here real soon.”

She stepped into the hallway and leaned her back against the wall, her gaze fastened on the heavy rope tied around the banister. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“There’s nothing you could have done to save her.”

“I was so angry at her. She was driving me crazy with her clutter and her idiot boyfriends. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” Her words gushed out. Like a confession. “When I came home tonight, I was going to confront her. She had to shape up or get out. I should have been more understanding. I should have tried harder.”

“This isn’t your fault, Brooke.”

What he was about to tell her would make her feel a lot worse than she did right now, but there was no way to avoid the truth. The police would be here in minutes, and Michael was obligated to give them an explanation for why he’d shown up on Brooke’s doorstep.

He holstered his gun and stepped in front of her. “I want you to listen to me. Listen carefully.”

“Why is this happening? Why?”

“Brooke, look at me.”

When she lifted her face, he saw confusion and anger. He wished there was time to be gentle, but he’d missed that opportunity. “Three years ago in Atlanta,” he said, “you were on a jury.”

“What?” She shook her head as if his words were incomprehensible.

“You have to remember.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He stepped back, aware that she still had the knife. “I don’t know who you are. Don’t care what you have to say.”

“You’ve got to hear this.”

“Leave me alone.”

When she started toward the stairs, he easily grabbed her wrist and gave it a flick. The butcher knife clattered to the hardwood floor. He held both her arms, forcing her to stand still. “Listen to me.”

Her teeth bared in a snarl. “Let go of me.”

“Do you remember the trial?”

“Armed robbery,” she snapped. “The guy was guilty.”

“His name was Robert E. Lee Warren, known as Robby Lee. Six weeks ago, he was killed in a prison fight.”

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

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

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

“Yes.”

“And he’s coming after me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you holding up, Brooke?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she seem depressed? Nervous?”

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

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

“Oh, yeah.”

“Anybody special?”

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

“Tyler Hennessey? The X Games snowboarder?”

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