Ambushed At Christmas. Barb HanЧитать онлайн книгу.
wrong. He hadn’t technically trespassed on a crime scene. He’d made certain not to cross the obvious area cordoned off with police tape. Even he could see that being there feeling around on the ground made him look suspicious.
“Before you get any ideas—” he paused to double-check that she wasn’t a trigger-happy detective “—can I put my hands down now?”
“No. In fact, up against the tree. Hands where I can see ’em,” she said, using that authoritative law enforcement voice he was all too familiar with, considering his cousin was the sheriff of Broward County. Experience had taught him not to argue with that voice and he couldn’t deny that he had been crawling around in the bushes at a crime scene. He’d known getting caught would be a possibility, even though he thought he’d checked out the area well enough before dropping down on all fours.
“Okay.” He kept his hands high as he walked toward the nearest tree trunk. “Let’s take it easy. I’m not the guy you’re looking for, so there’s no need to get hysterical.”
Detective Cordon issued a grunt sound.
For a split second he thought she might have been involved in a sting operation. The detective matched the basic description of the woman who’d been attacked at this very spot last night.
He glanced around for any signs of a stakeout. But then, wouldn’t another officer have made him or herself known by now?
“Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” he asked, figuring it couldn’t hurt.
“Right now? I’m patting you down,” she countered. Her voice had a throaty note and he detected the shift in tone the moment she put her hands on him—hands that sent inappropriate sensations firing from each point of contact.
In this cold, and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees in the last fifteen minutes, he should have been shivering. Warmth shot through him and it had everything to do with the electricity coming from the detective’s touch.
“I’d noticed.” She’d figure it out but he decided to add, “I’m not packing heat and I don’t have any other weapons.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He’d expected her response to be something to that effect.
As she resumed patting him down, more annoying sensations fired up. They had no business in this situation so he ignored them.
“Turn around,” she stated, using that cop voice again.
This also wasn’t the time to notice the perfume she wore as he wheeled around to face her. At least, he guessed it was cologne. He’d never smelled anything like it before. If he were pressed for a description, he might have said it was like walking in the meadow after a cool spring shower with the first rays of sun hitting the land, waking the flowers.
Deacon mentally shook off the head trip.
“Keep your hands where I can see ’em.” She studied him. Their gazes held for a second longer than courtesy dictated. A blush crawled across her cheeks and it was damn sexy when her cheeks flamed.
Way to stay focused.
Finished with the weapons check, she took a step back. “You’re cleared.”
“Like I already told you.” Deacon wanted this over with so he could get back to searching the area.
“This is the scene of a murder investigation.” The detective almost leveled him with her stare, which took some doing with someone as hardened as him.
“Why are you really here?”
This conversation wasted valuable time. It was late. Days on the ranch started early. Deacon had often joked with his brothers and sister that he could remember a time when 4:00 a.m. was the time to end the night, not begin a day. Being a Kent was a privilege, make no mistake about it, but one that came with obligations.
Deacon figured he could tap dance around the subject with the detective all night but decided to get to the point. As far as the murder, he considered it ranch business. “That’s exactly why I came, to see the crime scene.”
“You taking pictures on your phone?” Disgust came through clearly as soon as she unclenched her back teeth to speak. She’d probably seen just about everything in her line of work, including crazy folks who had morbid obsessions with death and murder sites.
“Check for yourself.” He gave her a look before fishing his cell from his pocket and holding it between them.
She took the offering and scrolled through his photo log. He hoped the offer would buy a little trust. Instead, as she scanned the pictures, she started rocking her head. “I know why your name sounded familiar now. Your family owns half of Texas, Wyoming and Idaho.”
“That’s an exaggeration.” She had the states right, just not the quantity of land.
“Cattle ranchers,” she continued, ignoring his comment, seeming like she was on a roll and would connect the dots as to why he was really there at any minute.
“That’s right.” They were cattle ranchers but owning mineral rights to their land had made his family fortune. It had also freed them from some of the pressures of cattle ranching. A bad year or a severe drought wouldn’t put them out of business. It also gave them ample space to take risks and create innovation. They’d been pioneers in the organic beef market.
The puzzle pieces clicked together so loudly in the detective’s mind he could almost hear them.
“You’re here because of the...” She met his gaze. This close, he could see the cinnamon flecks in her eyes.
“Severed foot,” he finished for her when her sentence dovetailed into silence.
“I read an article a few days ago about the heifers on your ranch turning up with severed left hooves,” she continued.
“Two other ranches have called to report the same crimes. Which brings us up-to-date with why I’m here,” he stated.
In a flash her expression changed. It was like she’d put in a quarter and hit all three numbers on the slot machine. “And you think the guy who’s been killing cattle has moved on to people.”
“Isn’t that how it usually works? Don’t most serial killers start with animals?” he asked.
“Yes. They usually start with something smaller, though.” Detective Cordon continued to take him apart with her stare. Now she looked like she was trying to determine if he needed a trip to Golden Pond Mental Hospital.
“Found three rabbits along Rushing Creek. Carcasses had been pretty picked through and they were in advanced stages of decay, all missing a front left paw.”
Now her brain really fired on all cylinders.
“I don’t remember reading anything about that,” she admitted. Her tone was laced with accusation.
He understood the implication. They’d just been found. Everyone on the ranch was being investigated. “The information will be out soon. As it is, we’ve had our fair share of crazies popping out of the woodwork with leads. Jacobstown is a small community. People are scared. They see this as some kind of omen.” He could tell by her reaction that the detective didn’t like to be the one on the light side of important information.
“You’d think he’d put out a bulletin right away,” she said.
“About rabbits that could have been caught in illegal traps and had their paws chopped off to free them?” Deacon issued a grunt. “The town’s already in a panic over the heifers. Folks aren’t used to crime. It’s not like here in the city. People don’t lock their doors where I’m from. Or at least they didn’t used to.”
“Everyone