Protective Duty. Jessica Patch R.
the mayor’s life, we’ll have to be invisible about it.”
Bryn punched the elevator button and stared at the steel doors. “Yep.”
Maybe he had offended her.
They walked through the parking lot to his work Durango. Unsure if she’d appreciate him opening her door or not, he paused near the hood of the vehicle. This was work. He hit the fob key and unlocked the doors, then rounded to the driver’s side, feeling like a total schmuck for not being a gentleman.
Bryn climbed inside and strapped on her seat belt. “I can’t see any of our victims willingly going with a gruff thug like the one who attacked me. Unless...” Bryn adjusted the radio, and he ignored her music choices. She had eclectic taste. Or at least, she used to. Minus country. How could a native Memphian not have a love and respect for country music?
Eric darted a glance at her. Her thin index finger tapped against a full bottom lip. “Unless?” So far, he’d been impressed with her ability to get up to speed at a rapid rate.
“Unless he was at the scene in disguise. In Cleveland...” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed, her neck bobbing.
“In Cleveland, what?”
Bryn’s face paled, and she gripped the canvas belt of her coat and stared out the window. What had happened? Eric mentally ran down her cases before transferring to Memphis. The Cleveland Creeper was her last. Whatever had happened might be the reason she left Ohio. And it might be the reason she was attacked.
“Many offenders like to come to the scene and watch, even participate.”
“So he might not have a beard or tattoo?” Eric jumped off 385 into Collierville. Bridgette Danforth’s ex lived out here on a golf course. Golf. His stomach soured.
“No, I’m certain the tattoo was real, which is why I think the beard and boots were his style, not disguise, but... I don’t know.” She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. Was she second-guessing herself? Overthinking? Bringing up Ohio had flustered her. A sheen of sweat beaded around her forehead, and her long lashes fluttered against her skin as she rapidly blinked.
“So, you up for some barbecue later? We gotta eat, and if I remember right you can tear up some ribs.”
She frowned, then grinned. “No, you like ribs. I like chicken. You have a terrible memory.”
But she’d smiled, and the lines across her forehead had smoothed out. “Maybe it was me that liked ribs. Either way, by the time we finish here and the studio downtown, we’ll be close to the Rendezvous. And they should be open by then.”
“Hmm... I somehow feel set up to satisfy your pork habit.”
Technically she had been set up, but not for food. Note to self: do not bring up Cleveland. If and when Bryn wanted to tell him what happened and why she transferred, she would. Unless it was the reason she’d been hurt, and if that was the case he’d find out the details on his own. “What can I say...the stomach wants what the stomach wants.”
Her cell phone rang, and she snagged it from her coat pocket. “Agent Eastman.” She shifted toward the window and lowered her voice. “Yes, I remember. Thank you for calling.” She hung up and went to town clutching the belt on her coat again, leaving wrinkles in the fabric.
“So this is me being nosy.”
“This is me telling you to mind your own business.” She flashed a mock smile and batted her lashes, but distress filled her eyes. How long could he go without pressing her to share what happened in Cleveland? Everything in him wanted to lean over and comfort her, to tell her whatever it was she was safe now. But it wasn’t his place anymore, and that bothered him. They were partners only. Not that partners didn’t care or worry about each other, but he couldn’t see himself reaching over and stroking Luke’s hand. Picture her with scruff.
Nope. Didn’t work. He flashed his badge to the attendant working the booth and entered a gated community set on a golf course. Brick homes with French shutters dotted perfectly manicured lawns. Fall wreaths graced front doors, pots of mums and whatever else those fall flowers were lined sidewalks and weaved between bushes. The kinds of homes and communities Eric had grown up in.
“You still play?”
“Harmonica?” he joked.
Bryn gave him a wooden look. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Golf. “Sometimes. But only when I want to.”
Eric could have gone pro. Almost had. But he’d attended a Royal Family Kids’ Camp sponsored by his church and things changed. Seeing so many abused and neglected children had tugged his heart in ways golf never could. People who hurt children—abused anyone for that matter—deserved justice. So he’d entered the police academy. But Dad and Mom didn’t quite understand the concept of God’s leading. According to them, life was what people made it. Destiny was acquired by going after dreams and desires without the need for God’s plans.
“Good for you, I guess. I always enjoyed watching you play.”
He turned and grinned. Sadness mixed with regret. “I always knew you were there for me. No ulterior motives. No pressure if I won or lost.”
“Kinda like you attending my swim meets.”
This was winding down a serious path. Emotions were surfacing that he couldn’t allow. Too much damage had been done when Abby died. “Well, I have to admit, I was mostly there to see you in a swimsuit.”
She laughed. “You’re such a guy.” Bryn had let his remark go, but Eric knew that deep down she didn’t believe that for a second. He’d been there to support her because he cared about her. Her drive and passion were contagious. Even now, he felt it in her skills as an agent.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Whatever lights your fuse.”
“Do you still swim?” Eric weaved through the subdivision. Large sweet gums towered overhead. An array of gold, red and orange leaves swayed with the fall breeze. Not the best day for golfing.
“Yes. As therapy.” She frowned at the word therapy as if it coated her tongue in acid. “I joined a gym not far from Holt’s rental house. Bought a new swimsuit...and a dog.” She sighed. “You golf with your partner? Luke?”
“Luke? Golf? Hardly. But if I wanted to suffer some punishment and box, I’d call him first. I play a few games every now and then with my dad.”
“Really?” Surprise lit her face.
“He stopped hounding me about getting back into the game when my profession became useful to him.”
The air in the SUV grew thick. He hadn’t thought his answer through. He’d said he wouldn’t bring up the past and then did anyway.
Bryn rubbed her hand against her thigh. “How...how are your parents?”
Eric pulled into a circular drive and cut the engine.
Brave question.
“Our lives were altered forever, Bryn. How do you think they’re doing?”
“Just for the record,” she said, “our lives were altered, too. We live with the guilt of what Rand did to not just Abby but the three girls he murdered before her. I grew up with him, and I never knew the darkness in him. I feel guilty for that, as well.”
Eric clenched his jaw. “I know. Let’s just not talk about it right now, okay?”
He’d rather focus on finding the man killing these women than reliving the tragedy in his own life.
Bryn white-knuckled her steering wheel as she drove to the therapist’s downtown office. The stop at the Danforth residence