The Seventh Victim (16 page)

Lara shrugged. “The past is a done deal. It’s over. Time to move on.”

Cassidy leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “How can you move on when you’re not at peace with the past?”

Unease nibbled at the back of her neck. “What makes you think I’m not?”

Cassidy dug her BlackBerry out of her purse. “I know you. I know when you’re happy and when you are not. A dozen summers burned your moods into my brain. What’s eating you?”

Lara swallowed. “Maybe I’m just nervous about the opening. Maybe once I get that behind me I’ll be my old charming self.”

Cassidy looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead said, “After our morning of beauty, we have got an appointment at a dress shop and then a makeup artist.”

A groan rumbled in Lara’s throat. “Cassidy, does it have to be this involved?”

“Baby, your ass is mine until after the event.”

James Beck had never been to an art opening. Truth be told, he didn’t have much use for art. He appreciated the talent it took to create a painting, but art was about as interesting to him as watching paint dry.

The 101 Gallery wasn’t a good-sized piece of property in Austin. Three stories, the building had been around for sixty years, but it hadn’t always been a gallery. There’d been a time when it was a dress shop and before that a butcher shop. Henry said when he was a kid he and his dad had shopped here for steaks. And later when it was a dress shop his mother had shopped here, though he suspected she’d done more looking than buying in the high-end shop.

And now it was all cleaned up and painted white. Hanging in the window was a sign that read MARK OF DEATH
.

The invitation had said the reception ran from six to nine, but he’d made a point to show up early, hoping to get a glimpse of the show and Ms. Church before the crowds started to appear.

He removed his hat as he stepped into the gallery. Soft harp music greeted him. Small candles lined the center of a long, rectangular table in the center of the room. The table was filled with displays of dainty, well-garnished finger foods too pretty to eat. He supposed that was the kind of food the fans of art ate. Delicate and not nearly enough to stick to your ribs. Beyond the food were Ms. Church’s photographic images.

One more step into the gallery caught the attention of a woman at the food table. She had dark hair, lots of makeup, and she wore a blue ruffled dress that reminded him of a cartoon character. A plucked brow arched as she moved toward him.

“Now what brings a Texas Ranger to my doorstep? Are you a fan of the arts?”

“I met Ms. Church earlier this week. Thought I’d stop by and have a look. She here?”

The woman had assessed him in a blink. She’d be polite, but knowing he’d not buy one of the pieces shifted him into a different, less important category. “And your name?”

“James Beck. And you?”

A slightly pointed chin tilted up. “Cassidy Roberts. This is my gallery.”

“I don’t plan to stay too long. Mind telling me where Ms. Church can be found?” Though formed as a question, the words sounded like an order.

Ms. Roberts studied him, as if considering whether tangling with him was worth the trouble. “She’s in the back of the gallery getting herself centered before the show.”

Centered
. Wasn’t the kind of word a gun-toting woman used. “Thank you, ma’am.”

As he started to move past her, she blocked his path. “This is not the best time. She’s got to be
on
tonight, all smiles, if you know what I mean. It would be nice if she’s not distracted in any way.”

“I’ve no intention of distracting her.” Though in fact that was exactly his plan. He wanted her to know he’d not forgotten about her or his need for her to remember.

Her gaze narrowed. “See that you don’t.”

When he entered the backroom he was looking for a jean-clad gal who was wearing a worn T-shirt and had her hair twisted on top of her head. Instead, he found a woman who could have stepped off a fashion magazine page.

Lara’s hair restored to natural blond, was down, gently curled and skimming the middle of her back. She wore heels that added several inches to her height and a sleek black dress that hugged her curves, which had been almost hidden days earlier with loose jeans and boxy T-shirt. Four slim gold bracelets dangled from her right wrist.
Damn.

“Ms. Church.”

She turned and immediately her quizzical look became suspicious. “Ranger Beck. What brings you here?”

His gaze held hers. “Thought I’d come by and have a look.”

She arched a brow. “Why?”

“You interest me.” He moved close to her, knowing his height would invade the space around her. He’d half expected her to take a step back, but she held her ground in her high heels.

“I’m fairly unexciting.”

“I’d never say that.” He caught the scent of a perfume. A bit too spicy. But he liked the dress and hair. “Show me what you got.”

Gold bracelets jangled from her wrists, and he suspected the bling and the whole look had been Ms. Roberts’s doing.

“What?”

“Your pictures. Show me what you got.”

She glanced past him, half hoping there’d be someone else to rescue her, but an empty studio was the reason he’d come early. He’d wanted her to himself. “Sure.”

Those high heels gave her legs a long, lean look that he liked. They also caused her hips to sway just a bit back and forth when she walked. Perfume aside, he gave Ms. Roberts big points for the new Ms. Church.

Lara stopped at the first black-and-white photograph. It was an interior shot of an old warehouse, and like the pictures he’d seen in the darkroom these images had sharp detail, high contrast, and frayed edges that added a moodiness to the piece. “This was taken in the Washington, D.C., area. This is a warehouse that overlooks the Potomac. I was able to get to the top floor, where the body was found, and take this image.”

The chalk outline of the body remained, as did a couple of discarded plastic evidence bags. A full moon shone through a large window and caught the lingering flecks of dust dancing in the air. He spotted holes in the ground. “I remember that case. The killer thought his victims were witches. He staked their bodies to the floor.”

“I’m surprised you’d know. Virginia is a couple of thousand miles away.”

“I remember the worst cases.” Like Seattle.

She didn’t speak for a moment and then moved to another scene. This one, she explained, had been taken in Boston. He didn’t know the section of town, but it didn’t take a local to recognize twilight in a back alley.

He traced the rim of his hat with his fingertip. “You’ve been to some dangerous places. Do you always go alone?”

“Sometimes. I had a friend who worked with me at the art store go with me to this site. Even I know when to take precautions.”

Even when she was dressed down, no man would miss the fact that Lara Church was a beautiful woman with a stunning figure. He hated the idea of her going to any of these murder scenes alone or with some work acquaintance. “Not smart, Ms. Church. Not smart at all.”

Her smile looked brittle. “I suppose you’ve got your opinions and I’ve got mine.”

Tension rippled through his muscles. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked. “How’d you come across your first murder scene?”

She shifted her stance, uncomfortable with the heels or the question. “By accident. I was in a small town in Utah, and there’d been a brawl. A man was killed. The yellow tape caught my eye and I stopped. Before I realized it, I snapped a picture with my cell phone camera. That night in the motel I was fascinated by the image. It had secrets to tell.”

He leaned closer. “The scene needed to talk to you.”

“Yeah.” Fire flashed in her eyes. “Sounds crazy. I know that. But after Seattle I didn’t care so much about people’s opinions.”

“Why?”

“After touching death, life’s smaller details can be petty.”

That he did understand. “So just like that you became a photographer.”

“More like a waitress who worked the odd shifts, so I could shoot when the light was right. I moved around, studied with different people.”

“Where’d you get the old camera?”

“An auction in Chicago. I didn’t know what to do with it and had to travel to a photo shop in Pennsylvania to get a photographer to show me how it worked.”

“And now you have a show, and you’re teaching.”

“That’s right.”

He leaned into a photo taken on a sandy bank by a river. “Want to know what I think?”

Her gaze trailed his. “I suspect you’ll tell me either way.”

“I think your memories are stowed away in a dark, shadowy corner of your mind.”

She shook her head. “You think too much.”

“That’s what I’m paid to do, ma’am.” He leaned in, nudging her personal space. “Do you remember the coin in your hand?”

Her face paled and without realizing she curled the fingers of her right hand into a fist. “I don’t remember it. Raines told me about it. A penny.”

He studied her gaze searching for hints of a lie. He was good at reading body language, and all he was reading off her now was fear and nerves. “What are you afraid of?”

A delicate chin lifted. “I’m not afraid.”

“You are.” Seeing her fear fueled his protective instincts.

She gestured toward the wall of photos. “The show. It has my nerves on end. I’m not used to so much attention.”

“This is your first time out of hiding since Seattle?”

“Yes.” Sorrow lurked behind the word, but she smiled as if forcibly embracing joy. “But it had to happen. I can’t live a gypsy’s life forever.”

“Have you ever considered going public about what happened in Seattle?”

She stiffened and in a half second he glimpsed fear in her eyes. “No.”

“If the killer is out there, he can find you.”

“I don’t need to paint a bull’s-eye on my head.”

“Lara!” Cassidy called to Ms. Church from across the room. She had two folks in tow. One was a spindly woman who wore all black and had a short, dark bob and the other was a short man with tight jeans and a crisp white shirt. “I have two people I’d adore for you to meet.”

Beck straightened, frustration clawing at him. Given more time, he thought he might have reached her. Now, Ms. Roberts would sweep her away into the glitter of the evening.

Lara’s smile was bright, but he imagined her visibly bracing. “If you will excuse me, Ranger Beck.”

“Looks like you’re headed to a firing squad.”

Her smile softened. “Close. Art critics.”

He didn’t need more time with her, but he wanted it. He had no business wanting her. The case always took priority. He was a Texas Ranger. But for the first time, he almost resented the silver star’s weight. “Been a pleasure, Ms. Church.”

Without responding, she moved across the room toward the art critics.

She extended her hand, demonstrating a poise that reflected the life she’d lived before the attack.

Cassidy moved toward him, a look of irritation flashing in her green eyes. “You were nice to Lara, I trust.”

“No reason not to be.” He had the sense they were burning time. As much as he wanted to play nice, he knew in his gut he didn’t have the luxury.

Lara had trouble concentrating as she talked to Ms. Vera Jones, a writer for the
Austin Chronicle
. Ms. Jones was expounding on her theories of modern photography.

She’d not seen Beck in a half hour, but she sensed his presence and at times his gaze burrowing into her back. Tonight he’d set her off balance. When she’d seen him, she’d expected him to be pissed off. She’d expected him to be frustrated. Instead, he’d been almost charming. He was a chameleon, able to adapt, be what the situation dictated. And that made him dangerous.

“Why does such a lovely young woman choose such a dark subject?” Vera’s question pulled Lara’s attention back to the slim woman standing in front of her.

“Darkness brings conflict and conflict is interesting.” She swirled the untouched glass of wine in her hand.

“Frankly, you look like the flowers and butterflies kind of photographer.”

Lara raised her wineglass to her lips and pretended to drink. “I get that a lot.”

Vera leaned in closer to Lara, as if they were coconspirators. “What drives your work? This attraction to death doesn’t come from a place of butterflies and puppies.”

Anxiety clutched Lara’s stomach. “No.”

Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Then where? What drives your art?”

Later she’d wonder over and over what prompted her candid answer. Beck’s presence. Guilt. Need. Anger. She’d never peg what prompted her to say, “I was attacked seven years ago. I survived, but it left its mark.”

Vera’s expression softened, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. “What happened?”

“I was nearly strangled to death. Several women before me were killed by this man, but I survived.” She’d never spoken the words out loud, and there was a freedom that came with the truth.”

“Here in Austin?”

“No. Seattle. Seven years ago.”

Vera’s eyes gleamed. “I remember reading about the case. What did they call him? Ah, the Seattle Strangler.”

She nodded, her body now numb. “Yes.”

“That case got national attention.”

“It did.”

“I never heard your name mentioned.”

“I was the seventh victim, the one that survived. The police never released my name.”

Vera sipped her wine and Lara could almost hear gears turning in her brain. “There was a woman strangled in Austin recently.”

Her throat tightened. “I know.”

Vera’s attention was finely honed. “That’s got to make you uncomfortable.”

“It makes me very sad.”

Vera glanced around the room. “I would think death scenes wouldn’t interest you.”

She swirled her wineglass, staring at the golden depths. “There are gaps I don’t remember. I keep thinking I will remember with each photograph.”

Vera released a breath she’d been holding. “Remarkable. Fascinating.”

She didn’t feel remarkable or fascinating, only vulnerable and afraid and sorry she’d been so candid.

Vera laid a hand on Lara’s chilled hand. “I’d like to talk to you more about this.”