Millionaire's Last Stand (4 page)

Now, each time she saw a baby, that gush of yearning hit her like a tidal wave. And she didn’t even want to analyze that odd spark of sorrow she felt every night when she went to bed alone. Best leave her analytical skills to prying into the minds of killers.

Serenade’s police station finally came into view, a single-story, redbrick building with a flagpole sticking out of the neat lawn out front. The American flag flapped in the late afternoon breeze, and the tall sunflowers planted along the path leading to the door swayed in that same gust. There was a small parking lot at the back of the station, and she pulled her SUV into a narrow spot, then hopped out and rounded the building.

When she walked into the station, she found herself in a small, brightly lit lobby. A plump woman with gray hair sat at the front desk, greeting Jamie with a suspicious frown.

“Can I help you?” the older woman asked in a craggy voice reserved for longtime chain smokers.

Jamie approached the desk with a smile. “I’m here to see Finn. I mean, Sheriff Finnegan.”

The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Is he expecting you?”

“Yes. Can you let him know I’m here?”

“Name?” the woman barked.

“Jamie Crawford.” For the hell of it, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and added, “
Special Agent
Jamie Crawford.”

That got the grumpy receptionist’s attention. Immediately, she picked up the phone, pressed a button and relayed Jamie’s message. A few moments later heavy footsteps thudded from the corridor tucked off to the left, and then Finn appeared.

Jamie couldn’t help but grin. She hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, yet he looked exactly the same. He was a big man, with broad shoulders, a thick chest and long legs. His black hair was its usual scruffy mess, curling at the collar of his white button-down shirt, and his eyes were still the darkest shade of blue she’d ever seen and as shrewd as ever.

“You lost weight,” was the first thing he said, staring at her in displeasure.

“Hello to you too,” she replied with a laugh. Then she crossed the tiled floor toward him and gave him a big hug.

A soft gasp sounded from the vicinity of the desk.

“Relax, Margie,” Finn said, chuckling at his receptionist. “You’re not witnessing anything illicit. Ms. Crawford and I are old friends.”

He turned back to Jamie, giving her that gruff smile of his, which always seemed to take such a toll on him. She’d known Finn for four years, and could probably count the number of smiles she’d seen on his handsome face on one hand.

“You look tired,” she remarked.

“I am tired.” Resting his hand on her arm, he led her to the corridor he’d just emerged from. “Let’s go to my office.”

The police station was even smaller than it looked from the outside. There were three doorways in the hall—a conference room and two interrogation rooms—and then the hallway widened into the bullpen, which boasted a few desks and a counter littered with foam coffee cups and chipped mugs. Finn introduced her to a lovely young woman with dark hair—Anna Holt, one of his two deputies—and then took her into a small office tucked in the corner of the bullpen.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

Jamie set her purse on the floor and sat down on one of the plastic chairs in front of the desk. She waited until Finn settled in his chair before saying, “No problem. You know I’m happy to help.”

Finn raked one large hand through his black hair. “So how did it go with Donovan? Did he do it?”

A laugh flew out of her mouth. Finn, right to the point as always. “You know I can’t tell you that. I only spoke to the man for twenty minutes.”

“But what’s your gut telling you?”

She bit her bottom lip, trying to decide if she should tell him the truth, or what he wanted to hear.

“Jamie.” He sighed. “Come on, lay it on me.”

“Fine. I don’t think he’s your guy.”

Finn’s features creased with aggravation. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me
that
.”

“You wanted the truth.” She shrugged. “My gut is saying he didn’t do it.”

Finn looked so dejected she decided to keep his suspect alive for a bit longer. “Remind me again of the evidence you have against Donovan,” she suggested. “I didn’t have a chance to go over your fax in detail.”

“All circumstantial. His prints are all over the house, but he lived there, so that’s expected. We found skin cells under Teresa’s fingernails, which are being tested for DNA at a private lab in the city.”

“Do you have a comparison sample from Donovan?”

Finn gave a grim nod. “Yep, and he submitted it willingly.”

“So if the samples are a match—”

“Then he can claim his DNA got there when Teresa grabbed him in the parking lot of the bar,” Finn finished. “Witnesses saw her do it during an argument.”

Jamie pursed her lips together. “Okay, what else?”

“Some hair samples, which are too long to be Donovan’s, and most likely belong to Teresa. Those are being tested too. And a partial fingerprint on the coffee table near where Teresa’s body was found.”

“Do
you
think it’s Donovan?” Jamie asked point blank. “And I mean from a cop’s point of view, not a resident who might not like him.”

“As a cop? It sure looks like he did it. The man had the motive, that’s for sure. Teresa was contesting their pre-nup, and about a month ago, she sold a tell-all article to the tabloids.” Frustration seeped into his husky voice. “Does any of this help with the profile?”

Jamie decided not to remind him that coming up with a profile wasn’t the same as pulling a rabbit out of a magician’s hat. Instead, she went silent for a moment, her mind working over the stream of information Finn just fed into it. This case was tough to figure out, especially since she had no real sense of the killer or the victim. What made her job easier, as sad as it might be, was when the perp committed multiple offenses. Serial killers had their own unique signatures, and once you identified the signature, a profile was often quick to follow.

“This case won’t have one,” she mumbled to herself.

“What?”

Finn’s voice jerked her from her thoughts. “A signature,” she clarified. “We’re assuming this is the perp’s first offense, right? That he or she isn’t a serial killer that decided to move to Serenade.”

“Right.”

“Then there won’t be a noticeable signature. Which means we need to examine the MO. Most violent crimes hinge on one or both of those aspects.” She paused. “Other than Cole Donovan, who else had motive to kill Teresa?”

“That’s the problem. I can probably list a dozen people off the top of my head who had a run-in with her.”

“Such as?” she prompted.

“One of the other waitresses at Sully’s Bar, who accused Teresa of sleeping with her husband. Mr. Jensen from the gas station, who she belittled for having a lisp. Parker Smith, the man she screwed around on Cole with—she pissed Parker off pretty badly when she dumped him in front of the entire town at Martha’s Diner—”

Jamie let out a low whistle. “Okay, I get the point. So obviously she wasn’t Ms. Popularity.”

Finn barked out a dry laugh. “Those examples were just from the past two months. Honestly, I wish she’d never come back to Serenade. Life was so damn peaceful while she was gone.”

“Where did she go?” Jamie asked curiously.

“She went to Raleigh for about six months after she and Cole split up, said she was moving on to bigger and better things.” He snorted. “Came back like a dog with its tail between its legs about two months ago.”

“Okay.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Okay, I think the first thing you need to do is talk to some of these people she ticked off.”

“Already on it. Max and Anna have been interviewing up a storm.” Finn suddenly groaned, his blue eyes honing in on hers. “So can you help? Jesus, Jamie, I need something to go on.
Anything.
Just point me in any direction.”

She could sense his quiet urgency. She knew what it was like, working a case that continued to remain unsolved. But she wasn’t a miracle worker, and profiling wasn’t something you could do without anything to go on.

“I’ll need to see the case files,” she finally said. “Including the crime scene photos. Maybe I can come up with a workable profile if I have more details.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“I want to speak to Joe Gideon,” she decided. “He’s the only one who can back up Cole’s alibi, if Cole is telling the truth. Does Gideon hate Cole enough to lie about seeing him that night?”

“Possibly. But Gideon’s not budging on his story. And neither is Donovan.”

“So if the encounter actually happened, then Cole is most likely innocent. And if the disgruntled neighbor is telling the truth, then Cole—”

“Shot his ex-wife in the heart to stop her from messing around with his finances.”

She leaned back in the chair. “All right, so I’ll see what I can get out of Gideon.”

“Good luck with that. He’s been interviewed four times already, twice by me, the other times by my deputies. I’m not sure you’ll be able to get anything new from him.”

She grinned. “You’d be surprised what people tell me. There’s a reason most of the agents call me in when they’re getting nowhere with a suspect. I have a sixth sense about people, you know that. And suspects always seem to spill their guts when I’m around.”

He went quiet for a beat, and when he spoke, she could hear the admiration in his tone. “Did you really get the Raleigh Butcher to confess to all thirteen murders?”

“Fourteen,” she corrected. “He admitted to killing his sister when he was a teenager.”

“Damn.”

Finn sounded impressed. Most law enforcement members were when they saw her in action in an interrogation room. She wasn’t an arrogant woman, but she knew if anyone could delve into a killer’s psyche and unearth its secrets, it was her. Call it a gift, or maybe a curse, but people opened up to her. Particularly violent, delusional people.

“I’ll speak to Gideon tomorrow and let you know what happens,” she said as she rose from the chair. “And I need those files.”

Finn was already reaching into his desk drawer. He extracted a pitifully thin blue folder, rounded the desk and handed it to her. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s probably not how you wanted to spend your vacation.”

She released a rueful breath. “Trust me, this will be much more exciting than anything else I could have planned.”

“The only excitement I want is the kind you get from making an arrest,” Finn answered with a sullen look. “We’re getting ten calls a day, demanding we get this, and I quote, evil murderer, off our streets.”

Jamie tucked the folder under her arm and shot him a reassuring smile. “Well, that’s why I’m here.” Her jaw hardened in determination. “I’ll do everything in my power to help you catch this guy, Finn. I promise you that.”

Chapter 3

J
amie spent the entire evening and following morning going over the meager files Finn had given her, and by the time afternoon rolled around, she hadn’t gained any insights about the case. Teresa Donovan had argued with her ex-husband in the parking lot of a bar, gone home at midnight, and two hours or so later, took a bullet to the heart.

Until the forensic results came back, there was nothing to prove that Cole Donovan had killed his ex-wife. He had the motive, sure, but Jamie still couldn’t reconcile the man she’d spoken with yesterday with a cold-blooded killer. Besides, judging by Finn’s notes, half the town had a motive when it came to Teresa.

By three o’clock, Jamie finally closed the case folder and left the cozy suite she was renting at Serenade’s only bed-and-breakfast. Joe Gideon had agreed to meet with her at four o’clock, and since she had an hour to kill, she decided to head into the town and poke around. The townsfolk probably wouldn’t want to talk to a stranger, but maybe someone would have something to offer. And if not, she could always sit in the town diner for a bit and eavesdrop.

As it turned out, she did neither of those things. After finding a parking space right on Main Street, she hopped out of the SUV, glanced at a store window and got sidetracked. She stood in front of a small art gallery, admiring a gorgeous oil painting that captured the town of Serenade so beautifully she found herself walking inside.

“Can I help you with anything?” a pleasant female voice asked.

Jamie looked over at the narrow counter by the door, surprised to find the same brunette she’d glimpsed by the fountain yesterday. Up close, the woman was even more beautiful, with the creamy pale skin of a cosmetics model, enormous liquid brown eyes, and a cupid’s bow mouth that had Jamie feeling envious.

“I’m interested in the painting in the window, the one of the town,” she answered. “Is it for sale?”

The brunette nodded. “It just came in last week. One of our local artists painted it, Miranda Lee. She’s unbelievably talented.”

“Her work is beautiful,” Jamie agreed.

The woman hopped off the tall stool she was sitting on and headed over to the easel by the window. “I’ve got it priced at three hundred,” she said over her shoulder, “but I’m sure the artist would be willing to lower the price if it’s too steep for you.”

“It’s fine,” Jamie reassured. “And I’ll take it. It’ll look fantastic hanging in my living room.”

The brunette gave a wide smile. “Wonderful. I’ll just wrap it up for you then.” As she gently lifted the canvas from the easel, she shot Jamie a curious look. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Jamie laughed and gestured to her business attire. “I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?”

“Kind of.” With a smile, the brunette extended one delicate hand. “I’m Sarah Connelly, by the way. I own this place.”

“Jamie Crawford,” she answered as she shook Sarah’s hand. “I’m in town helping out a friend. You probably know him, actually. Patrick Finnegan, the sheriff?”

It was as if a light switch had been flicked off. One moment Sarah’s fair face was animated and friendly, the next, it went pale and expressionless.

“Sure, I know Finn,” Sarah replied, a slight edge to her voice.