Lawman (10 page)

“He didn't work for any newspaper,” Garon figured.

“Apparently not.”

“What was in the file?” Marquez asked.

“Crime scene photos, trace evidence, swatches of the child's underwear.”

Garon frowned. “Nothing else?”

“Not really.”

“Did you have negatives of the photos?”

“No, but I figured the photographer would, so I phoned him.” He shook his head. “He'd had a fire in his studio and all the negatives were gone.”

Garon and Marquez looked at each other curiously. It was some coincidence, those two mishaps.

“You're sure there was no other evidence?” Marquez persisted.

The police officer pursed his lips. “Well, yes, there was the long piece of wide silk ribbon he used to strangle her…”

“Ribbon?” Garon asked quickly. “What color?”

“Why, it was red,” the officer replied. “Blood-red.”

G
RACE WAS SITTING IN
the living room watching the news when Garon came in, tired and hungry. It was obvious that he didn't work an average eight-hour day. In fact, FBI agents were expected to work ten-hour days, and they were paid accordingly.

He sat down in his big armchair. “What a day,” he said heavily.

“You're still working on the little girl's murder?” she asked.

He nodded. “That's all I've done today. But my squad is trying to track down a team of bank robbers who carry automatic weapons. And on my desk, waiting, are a drive-by shooting, a gang murder, a supposed suicide and an attempted murder that the victim's spouse hired a hit man to commit.” He glanced at her with a weary smile. “She had the bad luck to solicit an FBI agent to do the dirty deed.”

“Entrapment,” Grace chided.

He chuckled, leaned back and loosened his tie.

“That's exactly what the perpetrator called it. You don't solicit hired killers in bars that law enforcement personnel are known to frequent. The man she asked came straight to us.”

Miss Turner heard him come in and paused at the doorway. “You ready to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, then.”

“Shall I bring Grace?”

“That would be nice.”

He stood up and moved to where Grace was sitting. She colored prettily when he reached her, and those shy gray eyes made him feel odd inside.

He bent toward her. “Put your arms around me,” he said in a low, soft tone.

She caught her breath. He did have the sexiest voice she'd ever heard. She lifted her arms around his neck and felt him pick her up as if she weighed no more than a feather. He looked down into her eyes at close range and then at her mouth.

“I could get used to this,” he remarked.

Before she realized his intention, he brushed his hard mouth over her lips in a shiver of contact that made her heart jump.

He drew back, watching her reaction. She seemed nervous, but she wasn't trying to get away. He bent again. This time, he brushed her lips apart with slow, sensuous motions and caught her upper lip between both of his in a sensuous, nibbling motion. She trembled. Her lips followed his as she gave in to the first rush of desire she'd ever felt for a man.

He laughed softly, under his breath, and then he kissed her. He was no longer teasing. His mouth was demanding, masterful. He curled her into his body, crushing her soft breasts against his broad chest. He groaned faintly and pressed her lips apart with a hunger that was contagious.

Just as her arms tightened around his neck, Miss Turner called down the hall, “It's getting cold!”

His head jerked up. He stared at Grace with mingled desire and irritation. She was drawing him in, with her vulnerabilities and her sense of humor, and he didn't like it. He didn't want her in his life. But her eyes were soft and searching, and his heart was still racing from the heady contact with her lips. He shifted her and walked down the hall toward the dining room, mentally reciting square root solutions all the way.

He hardly knew what he was eating. Grace's sudden response had sent him spinning. He knew he should back off. But he wasn't certain that he could. She appealed to him strongly.

They stared at each other all through supper, with Miss Turner watching covertly and grinning.

After supper, Garon carried her back into the living room and put her down gently on the sofa. Despite her ardor earlier, she was jittery and inhibited with him. He sat down in his armchair across from her. He didn't turn on the television.

“Something happened to you,” he began quietly, wanting to understand her. His eyes narrowed when she reacted suddenly to the words. He leaned forward. “Yes. When you were a child. Someone made advances to you, frightened you.”

She bit her lower lip, hard, and averted her eyes. “How could you know that?” she asked, stiffening as she waited for the answer. He couldn't know…could he?

“I've worked in law enforcement all my adult life,” he said simply. “I know the signs.”

She relaxed, only a little. Then she frowned and glanced back at him when she realized what he was insinuating. “Signs?”

“Yes. You cover your body in every way possible. You don't wear makeup. You screw your hair up and keep your eyes down. You stiffen if a man comes too close.” His dark eyes narrowed on her face. “Some man touched you inappropriately.”

She swallowed, hard. “Yes,” she bit off.

“Not a boyfriend.”

Her face colored. “Definitely not.”

“A relative?”

She shook her head. It was hard to talk about it. She couldn't, even now, tell him the truth. At least, not the whole truth. She couldn't bear to remember. “A stranger,” she corrected.

“Did you tell someone?”

She had, eventually. At the hospital. “Yes.”

He drew in a long breath. “Did they catch him?”

She smiled sadly. “No. He was gone when the police got there.”

“I don't suppose your mother got you into therapy.”

“She was long gone by then, like my father,” she said simply. “My grandmother said we didn't talk about such things to strangers.”

He wanted to curse roundly. No wonder she was messed up. Small towns and their secrets. “Were there any more cases like yours, at the time?”

“You mean, did they look for the man who did it,” she interpreted. “Yes, they did. But he wasn't known locally. He didn't leave a trail that anyone could follow. Even if he had, my grandmother convinced the police chief at the time to bury the file.”

“That was stupid.”

“Yes, it was,” she agreed. “He might still be doing it, somewhere.”

“If he's still alive, he probably is,” he agreed coldly.

“Men who do inappropriate things to children don't ever stop.”

It was worse than he knew, but she didn't talk about it to anyone outside her family. She felt dirty when she discussed it.

He saw her discomfort. “Grace, it wasn't your fault.”

“Everybody says that,” she bit off. “But he said it was! He said it was because I wore shorts and halter tops and…!”

“God in heaven, what sort of normal man is tempted by a child, whatever she wears?” he exploded.

That made her feel better. She searched his angry face. “I don't suppose normal men would be,” she conceded.

He made an effort to calm his temper. It hurt him that a grown man could have approached a child that way, especially Grace. “Have you ever talked about it?”

“Only to Dr. Coltrain.”

So that was it. That explained her relationship with the redheaded doctor. He'd been her confessor. “I'll bet he gave your grandmother hell about covering it up.”

She managed a smile. “He did. But she gave it right back to him. She said it wasn't anything I couldn't get over.” That was a joke, but he wouldn't know.

He nodded. “Most women come to terms with it, eventually. Counseling helps.”

“So they say.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don't go out much, do you?”

She shook her head. “I told you. I don't like being touched.”

He pursed his lips, remembering the growing excitement of the kiss they'd shared earlier. “I'm working on that,” he drawled.

She laughed, surprised, delighted, by his attitude. He accepted her limitations without anger, without question. It was the first time she'd felt she could trust a man closer than arm's length.

“You're a nice man,” she commented.

His eyebrows arched. “Nice? I'm extraordinary!”

She laughed and started to reply when his pager sounded.

He pulled it from his belt and read it, grimacing. “Damn.” He got up and went to the desk where he'd placed his cell phone. He punched a number into it and put it to his ear. “Grier,” he said.

Someone spoke to him. He looked solemn. He nodded. “Yes, I can do that. When? All right. I'll meet you there. Better call Marquez. Fine.”

He snapped the phone shut and glanced toward Grace. “I have to go. The medical examiner's starting the autopsy on the child. I need to be present. There'll be trace evidence to secure, in addition to the information the autopsy will give us.”

She gasped. “You have to watch?!”

“It isn't something I look forward to, but yes, I do occasionally need to watch. We gather forensic evidence while it's going on. The chain of evidence is important. If we break one link, if we ever catch this SOB, we won't be able to convict him.”

“Oh. I see.” She was picturing the child's body, sliced and broken and beaten. She swallowed down a wave of nausea.

He bent and brushed his mouth gently over her soft lips. “At least you're still in one piece, Grace,” he said quietly. “Improper touching is unpleasant, certainly. But what happened to this child was infinitely worse. You were lucky. You didn't die.”

Lucky. She would have laughed, but he wouldn't have understood. She'd misled him. She had only herself to blame. “I suppose I was lucky,” she agreed. She was still alive. That was lucky.

“Want me to carry you down the hall before I leave?” he asked. “I may be late.”

She smiled. “It's okay. I have a cane that Miss Turner found for me. I'll be fine. I'm sorry you have to see that.”

“I've seen worse,” he said flatly, and he was remembering things he wished he could forget. “Sleep well.”

“I could go home,” she began.

He gave her a speaking glance. “You and the coyote don't get along. You'd better stay here for a day or two, until you're fit for battle.” He grinned, and winked at her, as he went out.

She tingled all over. He wanted her in his house, in his life. They both knew she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but he liked her here. She could have floated. Life wasn't bad, all of a sudden. It was sweet and heady and full of hope.

 

T
HE MEDICAL EXAMINER
, Jack Peters, was doing the autopsy. He was a forensic pathologist, and widely known in law enforcement circles for his attention to detail. His forensic investigator observed. The investigator was someone that Garon knew from another case, last year. Alice Mayfield Jones had worked as a crime scene technician for a long time before she took the courses that would allow her to work as an investigator for the medical examiner's office.

“Well, if it isn't one of the Grier boys,” Alice murmured dryly. Her short, dark hair was under a cap, and part of her face was covered by a mask, but her shimmery blue eyes were unforgettable.

“How many of the Grier boys do you know, Jones?” he chided.

“Your brother Cash worked out of the D.A.'s office here,” she recalled. “He was a lot cooler than you are.”

“I can see that he wears his heart on his sleeve,” the M.E. replied dryly, giving Garon a wry look.

“No. Cooler!” Alice corrected. “His brother wore a ponytail and an earring.”

“Hell will freeze over before you see me wearing an earring,” Garon obliged.

Marquez disguised a chuckle as a cough.

Alice glanced at him over the autopsy table. “Do you wear an earring, Sergeant Marquez? It would go nicely with your hair. Something dangly and unobtrusive…”

“If you don't shush, Jones, you'll be wearing one through your lips,” the M.E. told her firmly. “Shall we begin?”

He drew the sheet off the small body. Garon had to grit his teeth to keep from cursing. He noticed that his companions were feeling something similar. There were no more jokes. This was deadly serious.

The M.E. pulled down his microphone and began describing the patient, from her height and weight and age to the stark recital of her wounds and the damage they did. While he worked, Jones photographed the body in all stages of the autopsy. She'd already taken the sheet and body bag that had covered the victim downstairs to the crime lab.

With a slight movement of his hand, he covered the child's face with a cloth after Jones had photographed it. “It's easier like this,” he said, faintly sheepish. He'd done so many autopsies that they hardly bothered him, but he had a daughter this age and this job was painful.

He made the initial “Y” incision and Jones handed him a pair of cutters to sever the rib cage with, so that he had access to the soft tissues inside the body.

Garon could see for himself what the knife the perpetrator used had done to her small, thin body. Her internal organs were destroyed, from her lungs to her liver and intestines. The cuts were done with some force, as if the attacker had been in a rage.

“Were these wounds pre or postmortem?” Garon asked quietly.

“Pre,” the M.E. said curtly. “She was tortured. You can tell from the bleeding. If they were postmortem, they wouldn't have bled. The heart stops pumping at the moment of death.”