Protecting the Pregnant Witness (3 page)

“Do you know who that was you tried to save?”

“I was told his name was Kyle Austin. Apparently, he’s part of some wealthy family with good lawyers who got him into the same security facility as Patrick. I guess money can’t save your life, though, can it.”

His clean-shaven face tightened with a stony look. “Austin is the man who was masquerading as the Rich Girl Killer. He’s a stalker. An embezzler. A kidnapper. He tried to kill Charlotte Mayweather and Trip.”

Flinching in surprise, Josie quickly processed the names. Trip was Rafe’s friend, a fellow SWAT cop. He’d been hospitalized for most of a month after nearly dying while rescuing the reclusive Mayweather heiress from her kidnappers. “I thought the name was familiar. But I had no idea who he was. Has Trip recovered from his wounds yet?”

“He’s on vacation with Charlotte right now. He reports back for duty next Monday.” Rafe leaned in ever so slightly. “Just think how dangerous a man has to be to go nose to nose with a cop with Trip’s skills. You don’t want to be messing with a bastard like that.”

Bastard status aside, Josie had a calling. “He was dying.”

“There are people on staff to help—”

“
I
was there to help.”

“You can’t save everyone, Josie.” She glared up at him. He knew he was at the top of her list of lost causes. “You need to stop trying. You’re going to get hurt.”

Tell me about it.
Josie pulled her keys from her backpack and headed toward her car. She was tired, upset, hungry and in no mood to be reminded of that foolish night when she’d mistaken physical intimacy for an emotional connection. She’d opened up her heart that night—and Rafe had closed up his. Lesson learned.

“It’s over and done with, Rafe. Detective Montgomery said he had ruled me out as a suspect in Mr. Austin’s death, so I probably won’t have to talk about it ever again.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Hint, hint.”

“Back up. When did you talk to Spencer Montgomery?”

He knew the red-haired detective? Josie shrugged as they reached her car. “He came to the bar tonight. He’s investigating Kyle Austin’s death as a homicide.”

“He doesn’t deal with jail-cell murders.” Rafe’s hand on hers stopped her from sticking her key into the lock. “He’s investigating the Rich Girl Killer serial murders and related deaths. Does he think you know something?”

“I don’t know.” For a moment, Josie imagined the warmth seeping from Rafe’s hand into hers was meant to comfort. But she wisely pulled away. “At first he thought I might have had something to do with Austin’s death.”

“Montgomery’s an idiot.”

“No.” Josie remembered the unabashed perusal of those pale green eyes. “I think he’s really smart. I thought he was going to accuse me of slitting Austin’s throat.”

“What?”

“I had to perform an emergency tracheotomy. The medic, he was there—he said I did everything just right.” Memories of all the blood she’d washed from her hands and blouse, and the nerves she’d squashed down so that she could offer the help he’d needed, squeezed like a fist inside her, intensifying the headache and sour stomach she’d been fighting all day. “But that wasn’t it. I mean, he took a statement, like the officer and medic at the jail did. But Detective Montgomery had me brainstorm a list of poisons for him that could cause the anaphylactic shock—that’s um, paralysis of his airways—that killed Mr. Austin.”

“He could get that info online or out of a book.”

“He already did. I saw his notepad. He had a list of poisons already written down.”

Rafe braced one hand against the roof of her car and glanced up into the moonless sky before muttering a curse and swinging his gaze back down to her. “Did he accuse you of anything?”

Josie shook her head. “Not outright. But he sure made me feel guilty about letting Austin die.”

Rafe’s hand moved from the car to her shoulder, his hard expression changing as he gave her a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t let anybody die. Montgomery was out of line.”

Josie swayed on her feet, drawn to the warmth and security of Rafe’s chest. But she didn’t want to open up and be cast aside again. No matter that he claimed the distance he’d maintained these past six months was for her own good, the distance was there. And she was too weary, too wary, to breach it. She twisted away to unlock her car and toss her backpack across the front seat. “So now you’re on my side? You can’t have it both ways, Rafe. You can’t lecture me about taking risks and then think you can be there to pick up the pieces when that risk fails.”

His arms flew out in the air on either side of her, his frustration stamped on every inch of his tall frame. “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. I’m just trying to take care of you.”

“We’ll be just fine.”

He grabbed the door when she tried to close it. “We?”

Oh, what a mighty slip of the tongue. There was no way to hide the truth from those dark, ever-watchful eyes now. She leaned back in the seat and pulled up the tails of her untucked blouse to reveal the elastic waistband of her maternity jeans hugging the small bump on her belly.

The dome light of the car revealed everything she wanted him to see. “You’re pregnant?”

She tugged her blouse back into place and inserted the key in the ignition. “Brilliant deduction. And you’re not even a detective.”

“How far along are you?”

“Do the math, Rafe.”

His strong arm kept her from closing the door. He stepped into the triangle between the door and the car and squatted down, forcing her to look straight into those suspicious amber eyes. “It’s mine?”

Did he really think she had the time or inclination to be sleeping around? “It’s yours.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was little more than a husky whisper in the night.

Josie gripped the steering wheel, fighting the dueling urges to scoot away across the seat or to soothe that pulse beating along his tightly clenched jaw. “It hasn’t exactly been business as usual between us lately. You changed that night. It’s hard to confide in someone who snaps at me every chance he gets.”

“I don’t—” He had no room to argue there. “I’ve seen the worst the world has to offer, Josie—and some of that’s rubbed off on me. Maybe a lot of it. I wouldn’t inflict what I’ve seen and who I am on anybody. Your dad knew that about me. That’s why he wanted me to guard you from the dangers that are out there. It’s the same reason he knew we shouldn’t be together.”

She wouldn’t let him off that easily. “He didn’t want us together because I was only fifteen years old back then. That’s hardly the case now.”

“I gave him my word.”

“You worry too much about keeping your word to Dad.” She swallowed hard, feeling a familiar pinch of loneliness. But she had to be strong for her son or daughter. In three months’ time she wouldn’t be alone anymore. “I know you loved him as much as I did, Rafe. I admire your loyalty, but he’s gone. You’d do better to devote yourself to someone who’s actually alive.”

“Is that what you want? You want me to marry you?” He reached inside the car and Josie instinctively pulled her hands from the wheel and hugged her arms around her belly. The movement wasn’t lost on Rafe. She could see it in his eyes—she was shielding her baby from him. “You know what kind of childhood I had. How I feel about…having kids.”

“Oh, I know.”

At last, he drew his hand away. “Are you giving the baby up? Keeping it?”

“I’m keeping Junior.” She’d never considered any other option. “But don’t worry. I absolve you of all responsibility. I’ll sign papers if you want. I don’t want anything from you. Just think of this baby as all mine. I do.”

H
E STOOD IN
the shadows, waiting nearly thirty minutes for the cop sitting in his truck to quit cursing and banging his steering wheel, and then staring out into the darkness as though he might be holding back tears. Whatever Josie Nichols had said to him had clearly upset him.

Only after the black-suited cop had started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, still fighting whatever the bad news had been, did he emerge from behind the Dumpster and walk to the vehicle he’d parked two blocks down the street. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, squirted it with a splash of breath spray and held the minty scent over his nose, trying to dispel the acrid stench from his hiding place that lingered in his nostrils.

Officer Mood Swing had thwarted his plan to make quick work of the situation that had developed. But his ongoing research and his patience in the shadows had paid off in other invaluable ways. He’d quickly learned Josie Nichols’s nighttime routine. The fat uncle would be of no consequence—he’d taken the whiskey bottle upstairs to his apartment after closing the bar. But the big-brother cop could be as problematic as the extra security around the hospital where Miss Nichols spent most of her days.

He pressed the remote on his key chain as he approached his vehicle, pocketed the handkerchief as he found fresher air to breathe, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. It was a nasty habit, one he indulged only when he needed to calm himself, when he needed to think. And he definitely needed to think now.

KCPD was closing in on him. Every time he wrapped up a loose end, another thread in his plan unraveled. They’d kept him from knowing the satisfaction of squeezing the life from his last two victims. And he was hungry for revenge now. Aching with the blood-pumping need to destroy the last two women who had denied him what was rightfully his.

He could see their faces now, telling him no, apologizing. As if
I’m sorry
made everything all right. His heart raced in his chest and his breathing went shallow as he remembered the humiliation. He’d been punished for his failures, punished his whole life for being different, for not being rich enough or powerful enough to earn his place in their world.

He stumbled over the curb and caught himself on the hood of the van.
Stupid, stupid boy!

“Shut up,” he muttered, remembering the fists and the torture, remembering how he’d suffered all because a woman had denied him what should have been his. “Shut up!”

Hearing his own voice echoing off the brick and stone buildings surrounding him brought him to his senses. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, letting the nicotine sink into his lungs and blood, finding the calm he needed before grinding it out in the street beneath his foot.

Remembering his training, remembering to never leave one trace of DNA, one clue to connect him to any one place or crime, he carefully picked up the squished butt and climbed into the van. After disposing of the butt in the ashtray with the other two cigarettes he’d smoked, he picked up the digital camera from the seat beside him and turned it on to scroll through the pictures of his victims. It was a trip down memory lane that made him smile.

He’d paid far too dearly for not handling those four women as a younger man. But now Valeska Gallagher was dead. He clicked to a new picture. Gretchen Cosgrove was dead. And another. Audrey Kline and Charlotte Mayweather would be dead as soon as he could devise the right plan.

He just needed time.

Patience.

And a plan.

A self-important gang leader had ignored his instructions and botched his efforts to kill Audrey. Kyle Austin’s interference had kept him from killing Charlotte. And now both men were dead.

There was only one thing standing in the way of his success now. Another woman.

Finding her name in the prison visitors’ log when the guards had rushed in to help Kyle Austin had been easy enough. Sister of a druggie, and anyone with an arrest record was easy to trace. He’d found Patrick Nichols’s information online, and saw that, ironically, the inconsequential inmate was the son of a slain cop. All the newspaper stories about Aaron Nichols’s heroic death had led him straight to the Shamrock Bar. And Josie.

He scrolled ahead to the last few pictures on his screen. Her long ponytail would give him something to hold onto if he decided to kill her with his hands. But then he was equally skilled with poisons and rifles. And he hadn’t forgotten the bomb-making skills his father had taught him.

Josie Nichols wasn’t his usual victim. She wasn’t rich and she had no family, of influence or not, to speak of.

But she’d seen his face.

Even with his disguise, she’d been too close. He’d read the suspicion in her eyes. He’d seen the imprint of a memory being made.

Oh, how his fingers itched to wipe that look from her eyes.

It was only a matter of time before KCPD linked him to Kyle Austin’s murder this afternoon—only a matter of time before Miss Nichols gave her description and some lucky cop spotted him. For years he’d been faceless. But now Josephine Nichols could look at him in a lineup or a courtroom and say,
That’s the man I saw. He’s your killer.
And then he’d be put in prison. Reunited with his father and uncles who’d left him for dead in a hospital emergency room long ago.

Josie Nichols could give him a face. She could take his freedom away. She could stop him before his retribution was complete.

And no woman could ever be allowed to have that kind of power over him again.

One way or another, Josie Nichols had to die.

Chapter Three

“I don’t recognize any of the men in these pictures,” Josie confessed, feeling as frustrated as the red-haired detective pacing the length of the interview room where he had her going through book after book of mug shot photos. “If one of these men is your killer, then maybe my memory’s not as good as I thought.”

But Spencer Montgomery didn’t like that answer. He pulled the one she’d just closed back off the stack and opened it in front of her. “Are you sure? Look again.”

“No.” She shoved the book away, not sure if she wanted to throw it at Detective Montgomery or beg his dark-haired partner, Nick Fensom, who was sitting calmly at the far end of the conference table to say something. Ultimately, she took a deep breath, rubbed her tummy beneath the edge of the table to soothe the distress that was agitating both her stomach and the baby, and defended herself in a rational tone. “None of these men are the guy I saw wiping the blood off his hands just before Kyle Austin died. Those eyes? I’ll never forget them. He’s not here.”

She thought she was coming in this morning to sign her statement about the events she’d seen Friday after visiting with Patrick. She had no idea these two detectives wanted to grill her up one side and down the other because they believed she’d come face-to-face with someone they’d dubbed The Rich Girl Killer.

She wanted to remind them that she’d come here of her own volition, trying to be the good citizen her father had taught her to be, despite the suspicions they’d initially thrown her way after Kyle Austin’s death. She also wanted to remind them that she was already late for her shift at the Truman Medical Center where she was finishing up her nurse’s training. And although her supervisor was married to a forensic scientist who worked for the police department, and said she understood such things, Josie didn’t want any marks—like a lack of punctuality—to show up on her record.

Finally, the silent detective at the far end of the table spoke up. “Maybe he’s never been arrested and he’s not in the KCPD or State Patrol database. Do you want to try the FBI database?”

Josie’s gaze shot to the clock on the wall. “How many pictures is that?”

Detective Fensom offered her a wry smile. “Too many to look at today, ma’am. But it might be worth forwarding your description to the Kansas City Bureau office to see if they pull any pix for you to look at on a later date.”

Josie grabbed her backpack from the chair beside her. “So I can go?”

“One last thing.” Detective Montgomery flipped through the papers in his folder and pulled out a copy of an enlarged image of a high-school yearbook page. He slapped it on the table in front of her and pointed to the picture of a boy with wiry hair, an acne-scarred chin and thick glasses. “Is that him?”

Leaning in, Josie studied the picture more closely and compared it to the man with the toupee she’d seen Friday. “Well, the man I saw looked fifteen years older—maybe because his hairline was receding, almost like arrow points. The cheekbones were different, the jawline more pronounced.” She squinted, focusing in on the glasses he wore. The lenses distorted their size, but, “The eyes are the same.” Josie leaned back, hugging her bag over her belly. There was something cold, something disconnected and eerily familiar in those pale eyes. She looked up at the detectives. “Is this him?”

“At least we’re right about our Donny Kemp theory,” Montgomery said to Fensom. Then he looked down to answer her. “This is what our suspect looked like when he was in high school. We believe he’s had plastic surgery and has changed his identity more than once in the ten years since. If we can link Donny Kemp to whoever he is now—”

“The man I saw.”

“—then we won’t be chasing a shadow anymore. We could finally bring this guy in.”

She glanced over at the computer composite a police artist had pieced together from her description of Kyle Austin’s killer. The same cold eyes, masked behind a different pair of glasses, looked back at her and she shivered. “Am I in any danger?”

“All you’ve done is look at a ten-year-old photo. If we bring this guy in, and you identify him, we’ll put you in a safe house until his case goes to trial. Otherwise…” he pulled out the statement she’d signed earlier, folded it up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, “you’re listed as a Jane Doe informant in my report.”

“And I’ve talked to the prison about expunging your name from their files,” Fensom added. “You won’t even be in the M.E.’s report on Kyle Austin’s death. Until we find him and arrest him, he has no reason to see you as a threat.”

She pointed to the computer-generated picture. “Are you sure?”

Spencer Montgomery crossed to the door and opened it, indicating she was finally free to go. “I’d recommend practicing common sense when it comes to your personal safety, but I think extreme measures would only raise a red flag at this point. You be sure to contact us if you think of anything else, or if you do feel threatened in any way. You have my card, Miss Doe.”

Miss Doe. Not Josie or Miss Nichols. She hunched her shoulders and lowered her head as she faced the bustle in and around the maze of cubicles on the detectives’ division floor. As long as none of them knew why she was here, as long as Donny Kemp—or whoever he’d become—never learned her name, she’d be perfectly safe.

Josie took a deep breath and headed toward the elevators. She could do this. It was right to do this. Friday, she’d tried to save a man’s life and had failed. Today, she’d confirmed the police’s suspicions about the identity of a serial killer. Tomorrow…

Junior rolled onto her bladder and suddenly, Josie had to focus on finding the nearest bathroom.

This baby was her tomorrow. The precious life growing inside her meant she wasn’t alone in the world anymore. Rafe Delgado might regret the night they’d created this miracle, but she didn’t.

Her only regret was that the baby would probably drive the final wedge between her and Rafe, ending whatever relationship they had left.

Just as she was about to push the elevator call button, the light for the fourth floor lit up and the doors slid open. Her heart shriveled when she spotted the five officers inside, outfitted in special black uniforms, weapons and gear that made them look as though they were marching into battle. It was useless to try to turn away, useless to duck her head and pretend she didn’t know these regulars from the Shamrock.

Captain Cutler strode off first, tipping the bill of his hat. “Miss Nichols.”

Trip Jones filled the opening, grinned, then stooped down to give her a hug. “Hey, Josie. Good to see you.”

Alex Taylor winked. “Hey, Josie.”

Miranda Murdock, the newest member of SWAT Team One, even offered a polite nod. “Hello.”

Josie summoned the patience and strength to trade
hi’s
and hugs and
how are you’s
as the first four officers moved on past her.

But then Rafe was standing between the elevator doors, his grim, dark eyes sweeping over her.

“What are you all doing here?” she asked.

And then his hand was on her elbow, pulling her to one side, away from the criss-cross of traffic entering and exiting the floor. His fingers had burned through the cotton of her loose-fitting scrubs jacket by the time he’d turned her into the doorway of a closed office and released her. “Monday morning roll call,” Rafe explained. “What are
you
doing here? Is something wrong?”

With her back pressed to the door it was hard to see anything beyond the dimensions of his chest, hard to stand her ground and tilt her chin and remind him that he didn’t have any proprietary claim over her actions anymore. “I came in to sign my witness statement for Detectives Montgomery and Fensom.”

He glanced away and shoved his fingers through his hair, leaving the short, tobacco-brown spikes in a mess that she would have smoothed back into place for him six months ago. Yet when he faced her again, the only message stamped on his face was a warning. “Don’t get involved with this case. We’re talking a serial killer here.”

She curled her fingers into her palms, fighting the urge to touch him, to soothe his concern. “Would you back down from doing your duty? Or did you learn different lessons from my father?”

“I’m trained to do what I do.”

“And you don’t think I’ve learned a few survival skills over the years, with the people I know and the things I’ve been through?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Jose. I care about you.”

“Yeah, just not enough to do something about it.”

With that, Rafe drew back, taking his heat and charged energy with him. “I’ll admit you gave me a good shock Friday night. But you know I’ll take care of the baby—medical bills, day care—whatever you need.”

Feeling a bit of pity that he could see no joy, nor feel any hope, at the miracle they’d created together, she reached up and brushed her fingertips across his smooth, warm jaw. His pulse leaped beneath her touch and she smiled sadly. “My brave, noble, do-the-right-thing Rafe. That’s the big issue, isn’t it? I don’t think you understand what I really need.” She pulled her hand down to her distended belly. “What
we
really need. And if you do, I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to give it.”

His gaze followed her hand down, then back up to look her in the eye. “Jose, don’t do this. Keep yourself and the kid safe. Montgomery can find another way to catch this guy.”

Knowing his concern for her safety was genuine, yet knowing that depending on him would only resurrect feelings that were too painful to bear right now, Josie put her hand on his chest and pushed him back out of her space. “It’s not your call to make, Rafe. Now you’ve got a meeting to get to and I’m late for my practicum. Goodbye.”

It was the most unnatural thing in the world to turn her back on Rafe and walk away. The baby seemed to know it, too. Junior shifted inside her, in Josie’s mind, trying to reach for Daddy and the heat and strength and security Rafe had in such abundance. The little traitor. She was trying to be strong enough for both of them, trying to save them both the heartache of wanting Rafe Delgado.

Sensing that Rafe was standing there, watching her every step of the way, Josie pushed the elevator’s call button and waited. The swish of movement in her belly, not quite a kick yet, but a definite presence with a determined opinion, continued. The shifting pressure settled right onto her bladder again. With her hand on her belly, and tears threatening the corners of her eyes, Josie squeezed her thighs together and whispered a plea. “Please quiet down, Junior. I’m trying to make an exit here.”

W
ITH
F
OURTH
P
RECINCT
Chief Mitch Taylor running the Monday morning roll call meeting, Rafe was doing his best to pay attention. But the vivid memories of Josie’s touch on his skin, her hand cradling his seed in her belly and the battleground of emotions waging war inside him made it a real challenge.

“I want to remind everybody about the spring carnival we’re putting together for the KCPD widows and orphans fund this month.” Mitch Taylor pulled back the front of his jacket and propped his hands at his waist in a stance that indicated this project was every bit as important to him as the ongoing investigations on his agenda. His booming voice required no microphone. “Mark your calendars for Memorial Day weekend. Even though we’ve hired an event planner to coordinate the event, I’ll be looking for volunteers to help with everything from parking to running the arcade games for the kids.”

Rafe would make sure he didn’t get on the fun and games list, although he had every intention of helping. Besides being a successful fundraiser for a worthy cause, he wanted to be a part of the annual event that honored his fallen comrades, including his first partner, Aaron Nichols, and Dominic Molloy, a member of his original SWAT team who had been killed in the line of duty a couple of years earlier. Rafe understood the unspoken command in Chief Taylor’s request for volunteers, and had every intention of complying.

But as he leaned against the back counter between his commanding officer, Captain Michael Cutler, and the rookie on the team, sharpshooter Miranda Murdock, his focus wandered. While the chief moved on to updates about ongoing cases, Be On the Lookout for suspects, or BOLOs, and other points of concern, Rafe swept his gaze across the detectives and uniformed officers crowding into the fourth floor conference room.

This, he understood. Requests from the precinct chief. Morning reports. Strong coffee burning his tongue. The Glock 9 mm strapped to his thigh.

Lists. Rules. Expectations. He trained hard to be a SWAT cop, did his damnedest to be worthy of the trust he shared with his team. He obeyed orders and gave them with equal alacrity. He knew the penalties for failing to do his job—a reprimand, a demotion, a bullet.

So he could care about his work. He could invest himself in being a career cop because he understood his job inside and out.

What he didn’t understand were people and the unpredictability of their emotions. Why had Calvin Chambers’s murder hit him so hard? It wasn’t the first death he’d had to deal with on the job. He’d lost things far more personal than a boy he’d only known for the ten minutes he’d bled out in his arms. Why had dumping his raw emotions on Josie Nichols, pouring himself into her willing body and loving arms felt like the only balm that could assuage the grief and anger he’d felt that night? Where had that need come from?

He’d betrayed a promise to Aaron Nichols. He’d taken advantage of a friendship and that crazy, flattering, foolish crush Josie had always had on him. He’d given in to the simmering male awareness of her long legs and silky hair that he’d studiously ignored for ages because he knew damn well that he wasn’t marriage material. Josie could do better than him. She deserved a happily-ever-after that no moody, brooding bastard like him could ever give her.

He liked the black-and-white assurance of routine and regulations. He hated the gray area of relationships. If a child loved his parents, and trusted that they loved him in return, then why use him as a whipping post to vent their frustrations with the world? If a young man wanted to be worthy of the faith of a mentor, then why promise to take care of a family when he lacked the skills to do so?