Millionaire's Last Stand. Эль Кеннеди
It was strange as hell. She figured she’d have children eventually, but it had never been a pressing matter. She’d spent the past ten years building her career, and her professional success made her proud. Work had always been enough for her. Until recently.
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 singlestory, 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