Criminally Handsome

Criminally Handsome Cassie Miles Criminally Handsome Cassie Miles www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover Page (#uce7d8060-1a80-50f4-9bd5-dd85194d5d6f) Title Page (#u4daafc19-29f6-53db-8b30-4dd735bc3aa2) About the Author (#ue3ed839d-56e6-5538-b0bc-2dc76a53ab80) Chapter One (#u8ce7fd6f-6849-5d4c-9e08-73653d9fe657) Chapter Two (#ue9a978a4-78e6-57b7-a0f4-f08a730fa30d) Chapter Three (#u96fc4840-0f5b-51a1-a9fa-22a4f9887a8c) Chapter Four (#u07f791cd-354d-5195-aeeb-b2fef3fa714e) Chapter Five (#u75bb0e92-ab50-5850-8cd1-900c6fe8230e) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) Though born in Chicago and raised in LA, CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. A lot of wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home. Chapter One (#ulink_45534671-92f2-51cd-8178-53fc38036c9f) Emma Richardson folded her arms on the desktop in her home office and laid down her head. At nine o’clock in the morning, it was too early for a nap. But she was tired, so very tired. I’ll only rest my eyes. Only for a moment. While the house is quiet… Reality faded as a psychic vision seeped into her mind. Daylight shimmered and vanished, transformed into night. She was in a forest. A cold wind rattled through bare branches, and the shadows shifted beneath her feet. Beside her, to the east, the dark waters of a wide, wild river crashed against rocks and boulders, spewing a deadly froth. A tall woman appeared. She wore an FBI jacket. Her eyes were hollow. Her lips were white and dead. She spoke only one word. “Run.” Emma didn’t ask why. She knew. He was coming closer. The danger was coming closer. She scrambled over the rocks at the river’s edge. This was no good; she needed to seek open ground. Turning to the west, she fought her way through thicket, pine and cottonwood. The trees dissuaded her. West was the wrong direction. On the medicine wheel, west meant death. She slipped, caught hold of the slender white trunk of an aspen. The bark felt warm, full of life. The branches were green with leaves. This tree had saved her balance, kept her from falling. With a final effort, she crawled into the open. As she ran, her sneakers dug into the moist earth, still saturated from the recent blizzard. She vaulted over low shrubs and patches of snow, running hard, running for her life. The muscles in her thighs throbbed. Her blood pumped so fiercely through her veins that her ears were ringing. But she had to keep going. If she stopped, he’d catch her. Straight ahead, she saw a car, and she heard the cries of an infant. She had to protect him. She veered toward the south—the direction of safety—leading her pursuer away from the precious child. He was gaining. So close that she felt his hot, fetid breath on the back of her neck. His hands grabbed her jacket. There was no escape. He had her. She fell. He was on top of her. Shadows hid his face but she saw his necklace. A leather medallion with a black bear claw design. He held a knife. Moonlight gleamed on the silver blade. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard him say, “Aspen got away. But you will die.” As the blade descended toward her throat, her eyelids closed… She woke with a start, jolted back in the swivel chair. April sunlight poured through the window. The screen saver on her computer showed a random lightning bolt pattern. Though Emma knew she was safe at home, the aura of danger lingered. Her heart raced as if she had actually been running. Finally, she’d had a vision. Finally, her gift as a medium might help her find her cousin. Before the images faded in her memory, she grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down all that she could remember. Her pen flew across the page, making sketchy notes: Woman in FBI jacket. The river to the east. The green aspen leaves. Running to the west. The car with the baby. Turn to the south. His knife. His leather necklace. She drew the bear claw design. Lifting her pen, she looked down at the paper and saw that she’d unintentionally drawn a second design. Leafy with vines, it looked like a logo. Three letters twined together. VDG. Where did that come from? And what did VDG stand for? Very Damn Good? Vines Do Grow? Or the V could stand for Virgin. She winced. Don’t go there. This vision wasn’t about her personal life. These images pertained to the disappearance of her cousin, Aspen Meadows. Aspen. She circled the word. The aspen tree in her vision was leafy and warm, still flowing with sap. And the pursuer said that Aspen got away. Emma wanted to believe those words, wanted to believe that her cousin had survived the attack. But where was she? Five weeks ago, just before a spring blizzard blanketed the southeast corner of Colorado with several feet of snow, Aspen’s car had been found in a ditch just outside Kenner City. Her six-week-old son, Jack, was safe in his car seat, but Sheriff Patrick Martinez suspected foul play. When he placed Jack in Emma’s care, he had warned her to be prepared for the worst. But that couldn’t be. Aspen wasn’t dead. Whenever someone close to Emma passed on, she knew. The dead came to her from the other side, spoke to her, showed her visions or symbols. Ever since she was ten years old and her deceased grandmother warned her about the fire, she’d been a medium—able to communicate with the dead. At age thirty, she trusted her spirit visions almost more than reality. For five long weeks, she’d been hoping that her psychic senses would give her a clue to Aspen’s whereabouts, but nothing had come into her mind. Until now. The spirit who showed her this vision had to be the tall FBI woman—a dead woman. Who was she? How was she connected to Aspen’s disappearance? Emma closed her eyes and concentrated. Who are you? Nothing came. Not a sound. Not a symbol. Please tell me. Who are you? Still nothing. Are your initials VDG? She heard a faint echo. Julie. Then silence again. “Okay,” Emma said as she opened her eyes. “Your name is Julie.” It was a start. Sometimes, Emma was able to reach out to these spirits, and they’d respond. She communicated often with her grandma Quinn and her aunt Rose, both of whom had been popping in to offer advice on how to care for Aspen’s infant son. They observed and commented and nagged about how Emma was doing everything all wrong. If the spirits of Grandma and Aunt Rose had been able to change diapers, life would be so much easier. But no. Emma was the sole caregiver. Definitely not a job she’d signed up for. She figured that the main reason she hadn’t had a vision about Aspen’s disappearance was severe sleep deprivation from baby Jack’s every-few-hours feeding schedule. He was a cuddly little bundle of stringent demands: Feed me. Change me. Carry me. Rock me. Dealing with an infant was far more time-intensive than she’d ever imagined. Also, she had to admit, more rewarding. Though she learned—from the dozens of baby care books she’d purchased online—that Jack’s change of facial expression could be nothing more than a reflex or a muscle twitch, his smile was amazing. And the random sounds he made—other than the full-throated crying—tickled her. In his wide-open eyes, she saw the wisdom of the ages. She had to find Aspen, to reunite her with this little miracle named Jack. Finally, she had a vision to work with. Emma grabbed the phone on the desk and punched in the number for Sheriff Martinez. He owed her for a couple of cases where she’d used her skill as a medium to help him find missing persons. Now, it was his turn to help her. MIGUEL ACEVEDO, a forensic investigator for the Kenner County Crime Lab, rode in the passenger seat beside Sheriff Patrick Martinez. Miguel hated that his analysis of a crime scene was being called into question. By a psychic? “This is a waste of time, my friend.” “Don’t be so sure,” Patrick said. “Over the years, Emma has helped with missing person cases. She’s saved lives. Everybody around here trusts her and knows she’s not a fraud.” “Why haven’t I heard of her?” “You don’t know much about Kenner City. Your crime lab has only been here for a year.” Though the Four Corners area covered a huge territory in four different states, the small-town populations were insular. The people in Kenner City were slow to accept change, even slower to warm up to strangers. Miguel hardly knew anyone outside law enforcement. “Tell me about one of her cases.” “Remember last fall when that boy disappeared from his mother’s house? Emma told me where to look.” “The boy was with his father.” And it didn’t take a visionary to figure out that the estranged dad snatched his own son. “Wasn’t he your first suspect?” “You bet, but Emma said they were in Durango. In a room with a wagon wheel in front. And she saw the number seven.” “Was she right?” “Close enough. The name of the motel was the Covered Wagon. And it was room seventeen.” Patrick reached up to adjust the brim of his Stetson. “Trust me. She’s the real deal.” “A real psychic. Those two words are opposites. If something is real—as in reality—how can it be psychic?” “You’re a real pain in the ass, Miguel.” “It’s my primo talent.” “And she’s not really a psychic. She’s a medium.” “What’s the difference?” “She talks to dead people.” “Muy loco.” He lowered the window and pushed his open palm against the wind. A fresh coolness rushed inside the cuff of his denim jacket and plaid cotton shirt. A few weeks after the blizzard, there were still patches of snow on the shady side of the street and at the curbs where the snow plows had piled up little mountains. Today’s temperature was already in the fifties. By noon, it would be sixty. The weather felt like spring. His favorite season. He felt like a kid instead of a thirty-three-year-old man, felt like he should stick his head out the window like a collie and let the wind blow through his hair. He ran his fingers through that thick, black hair which was seriously in need of a trim, then turned toward Patrick. “Tell me, my friend. Did Emma the fortune teller predict that you’d fall in love with Bree Hunter?” At the mention of his fianc?e’s name, the big tough sheriff melted like chocolate in mole. “Emma isn’t that kind of psychic. She doesn’t read a crystal ball.” “Exactly what kind of bruja is she?” “She’s not a witch,” Patrick said. “There are scientific theories about paranormal abilities and mediums. Why are you so threatened?” “She’s no threat. Just a waste of my time.” He’d already done a thorough analysis of the vehicle abandoned by Aspen Meadows. From the skid marks left by tires and a high-impact dent on the rear bumper, he determined that Aspen’s car was forced off the road into a shallow ditch. He’d found no fingerprints or other trace evidence in the car, other than those of Aspen and a few close friends, which led him to believe that she’d climbed out from behind the steering wheel and took off running—probably searching for help or trying to divert her pursuer from harming her baby. Then Aspen disappeared. She was either purposely in hiding or dead. No matter what Emma Richardson said. Patrick cleared his throat. “Do me a favor. Don’t tease Emma.” “Why not? The bruja is sensitive?” “Aspen is her cousin. They’re close. They grew up together on the rez.” The nearby Ute Mountain Ute reservation took up thousands of acres on these high plains. Patrick’s fianc?e, Bree, was a detective on the tribal police force. “I didn’t know Emma was Ute.” “Partly. She doesn’t look it. Her hair is brown, not black. Her eyes are blue.” It must have been tough to live on the rez and not look like everybody else. Miguel would have felt a twinge of sympathy if he hadn’t thought this whole psychic thing was crazy. “I won’t give her a hard time, unless she asks for it.” “She’s a good woman. When I told her about Aspen’s disappearance, Emma stepped up and took responsibility. She’s the temporary guardian for Aspen’s baby.” “What about the father?” “Aspen never said who he was.” “We could run the baby’s DNA,” Miguel said. “The father might be in the database.” “The guy obviously doesn’t care. Baby Jack is better off with Emma.” The sheriff pulled into the driveway of a pretty little ranch-style house, white with black trim and a shake roof. The lot was huge and well-landscaped with indigenous pines and spruce. Empty flower boxes at the windows waited for their spring planting. “Nice place.” The cleanliness and normality surprised him. He’d halfway expected a haunted house with cobwebs draped across the windows and a graveyard in the back. “What does this medium do to earn her living?” “Some kind of consulting or editing. She works at home on her computer.” Patrick issued one last warning. “Be nice.” “I’ll be on my best behavior, and that’s saying a lot. I used to be an altar boy.” Like that churchgoing boy from so many years ago, he trudged along the sidewalk, dragging his feet. He’d rather be somewhere else. Back at the lab, he had work piling up and a new piece of audio analysis equipment he wanted to play with. He waited on the front stoop while Patrick rang the bell. From inside, he could hear a baby crying, which didn’t exactly reassure him about Emma being a good mother substitute. The door swung open. Miguel found himself staring into the huge blue eyes of a slender woman with straight, silky brown hair that fell across her forehead and was cut in a straight line at her sharp, little chin. He saw hints of her Ute heritage in her dusky complexion and high cheekbones. Her lips pulled into a wide, open smile as she greeted Patrick. Though she balanced the fussing baby in her arms, she managed to shake his hand when the sheriff introduced them. “Pleased to meet you, Miguel.” “Same here.” His first impression was all good, muy bueno. As he entered her house, he studied her more closely. As a CSI, he was trained to notice details. Her silver earrings and the necklace around her long, slender neck had a distinctive Ute design. Her beige turtleneck, almost the same color as her skin, and her jeans resembled the typical outfit worn by most people in the area at this time of year. But the fabric of her turtleneck was silk. He didn’t know much about women’s clothing, but he suspected that she shopped in classy boutiques. In her sunlit kitchen, she offered them coffee. With a glance at Miguel, Patrick said, “We probably shouldn’t waste any time.” “No rush,” Miguel said. “Oh, good,” Emma said as she bounced up and down with the whimpering baby, gently stroking the fine hair on top of his head. “Because it’s time for Jack’s feeding. I just finished heating the formula.” “I’ll take the baby.” Miguel held out his arms. Back home, he had a growing herd of nieces and nephews. Though his family lived only a few hours’ drive away from Kenner City, his schedule didn’t leave much time for visits, and he missed them. When she handed over the baby, dressed in footed pajamas, he wrapped the blanket snugly around the infant’s tiny legs and cradled him in the crook of his arm. “Hush, mijo.” The baby looked toward him. As soon as Miguel took a seat at the kitchen table, the fussing stopped. “How old is he? About three months?” “Eleven weeks.” Her jaw literally dropped. “How did you get him to settle down?” “He’s curious. Is that right, mijo? You’re figuring out who I am before you start making noise and complaining.” “Let’s get him fed before that happens.” She maneuvered in her kitchen with a graceful economy of motion. Her age, he guessed, was probably about thirty—the prime of womanhood, old enough to be done with girlish giggles and young enough to be open to new experience. The more he saw of Emma Richardson, the more he liked her. After she handed him a bottle full of formula and placed two coffee mugs on the kitchen table, she said, “I made notes of what I remembered about my vision. I’ll go get them.” As soon as she left the room, Patrick said, “No rush? I thought you were in a big hurry.” He smiled down at the baby, who smacked his little lips as he sucked down formula. “You didn’t tell me she was pretty. How does a woman like that get to be in her late twenties and still unmarried?” The sheriff sipped his coffee. Wryly, he said, “Maybe because she’s a witch, and she turns her lovers into toads.” That was a chance Miguel might be willing to take if it meant spending more time with Emma. He settled Jack into a baby seat on the tabletop and kept the nipple plugged into his mouth. With the other hand, he lifted his coffee mug. The brew was lightly flavored with cinnamon, just the way he liked it. Emma returned with a sheet of paper, which she placed on the table in front of her. “I’m not quite sure how to interpret everything I saw, but I believe Aspen is alive.” Miguel’s infatuation slipped a few notches. Crazy wasn’t appealing. “Why?” “Two reasons. I saw an aspen tree with green leaves. And the man who was chasing me in the vision said so. He said, ‘Aspen got away.’ I assume that means he failed to kill my cousin.” “What else?” Patrick asked. “I was next to a river. For me, water is a symbol of life. The river was to my right, to the east.” She frowned at her notes. “Directions seemed to be important, but I’m not sure why. It might have something to do with the medicine wheel.” “The medicine wheel?” “I’m part Ute. I was raised by my aunt Rose on the rez, and the medicine wheel is part of my culture. The east where the sun rises is associated with good things, new life. I always orient my desk toward the east so my work will go easier. West is the opposite. North is negative. South is positive.” “This vision of yours,” Miguel said, trying hard not to be sarcastic. “Was it a road map to find your cousin?” “I’m not sure what the directions mean. I’m hoping that if I take a look at Aspen’s car, I might get a clearer picture of where she is.” “Like a psychic GPS system?” Anger flashed in her blue eyes. Though Patrick had told him to be nice, Miguel couldn’t help teasing. Not when she left herself wide-open with such an irrational theory. Her tone was curt. “You’re a forensic investigator, right?” “Correct.” “Here’s something specific for you to work with.” She pushed the paper toward him. “The man who was chasing me wore a leather necklace with a bear claw design. This is what it looked like.” “A grizzly paw.” His gaze slid down the page and saw the words in quotation marks: Aspen got away. But you will die. Emma hadn’t mentioned that second part. Was that the way visions worked? Pick one thing and ignore another? He also saw another scribbled design using the initials VDG. That was a symbol he recognized; it was important to another investigation. “What’s this?” “I didn’t see it in my vision. When I started making notes, I just drew it.” He adjusted Jack’s bottle. “You don’t know where it came from? You’ve never seen it before?” “Not that I recall.” Her smile was a treasure. So beautiful, muy bonita. And so crazy, muy loca. He needed to inform the FBI about the VDG symbol. Chapter Two (#ulink_32bd496a-26f4-53d1-bce3-36b29a181a7d) On their way to the impound lot where Aspen’s car was being held, Emma rode with Miguel in her little gas-saving hybrid so they wouldn’t have to switch the baby seat in and out of the sheriff’s cruiser. Though they were in her car, she let Miguel drive so as not to further affront his authority. His sarcasm clearly told her that he didn’t much care for mediums, psychics or spirit visions. The only thing that sparked his interest was that VDG scribble. She stole a glance at this dark, lean man with the shaggy black hair and dark green eyes—the color of a cool, deep forest. When he wasn’t making smart-alecky comments, he was attractive. And she wasn’t the only one who thought so. Baby Jack adored him; they’d bonded in seconds. After finishing his bottle, Jack wiggled cheerfully in Miguel’s arms and made gurgle noises that sounded like an alien language. Riding in the backseat, Jack still hadn’t stopped burbling. His was the only conversation in the car. Emma couldn’t think of a word to say. Though she’d always been terminally shy, this long silence was ridiculous. She cleared her throat. “The snow is melting fast.” “Yeah, it’s about time it started feeling like spring,” he said. More silence. “So, Miguel, are you new to Kenner City?” “I’ve been here about a year. I was one of the first employees at the new crime lab.” “Where are you from?” “You tell me.” He shot her a wry glance. “You’re the psychic. You’re supposed to know these things.” Usually, she paid no attention to those who doubted her visions or—even worse—those who treated her with great deference as if she were the Oracle of Delphi. But she wanted Miguel to accept her. Maybe because he was good with the baby. Maybe because he could help her find Aspen. And maybe…just because. “Are you challenging me?” “Go ahead. Astound me.” “Fine.” She studied him for a moment. His identity shouldn’t be so hard to figure out. The sheriff had mentioned that most of the employees at the lab were from Colorado. She assumed that Miguel wasn’t newly transplanted from a big city like Denver; his cowboy boots were well-worn and looked like his habitual footwear. He didn’t have the roughened hands of a cowboy or a farmer from the San Luis Valley, but she noticed calluses on his fingertips, typical of a guitar player. She figured that he’d gone to college to study forensics. But where? Which school? She remembered that when he looked at the design on her pursuer’s necklace, he identified the marking as a grizzly claw. Not a bear, but a grizzly. And the grizzly was the school mascot for Adams State College in Alamosa. “I’m not sure if you were born there,” she said, “but you lived in Alamosa.” “Correct.” He arched an eyebrow. “The sheriff told you, right? Everybody thinks Patrick Martinez is the strong, silent type, but he can’t keep his mouth shut.” “I never heard your name until I met you this morning.” He pulled up at a stop sign, pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead and stared at her with an intensity that she found both intimidating and sexy. As his gaze scanned her face, searching for a hint that she was lying, she faced him without flinching. He asked, “What else can you tell me?” “You play guitar.” He held out his right hand. “You saw the calluses.” “You’ve got a fresh grease stain on your jeans. Maybe you ride a motorcycle.” “A Harley,” he confirmed. “You’re using logic. Not psychic intuition.” “Does it matter if I find the answers with logic or by a vision?” she asked earnestly. “Both are methods of observation. Different paths that lead to the same truth. You’d understand if you could be inside my head, walk a mile in my shoes.” He glanced at her feet. “Purple sneakers with white stars? I don’t think so.” “They match my jacket.” She ran her fingers down the zipper of the purple leather jacket she’d bought on her last trip to New York. The style was so not from the Southwest, but she loved it. As her tone lightened to match his teasing, she realized that she was enjoying this conversation. Moments ago, she’d been tongue-tied. Now her wits were fully engaged. How lovely to talk to an adult who wasn’t a nagging ghost. “We have more in common than you think, Miguel. We’re both investigators.” “But you see things that aren’t visible to the naked eye.” “So do you. Every time you look into a microscope.” “You make a good point.” His brow furrowed. “So much of forensics, like DNA testing and trace evidence analysis, isn’t readily visible.” “Paranormal phenomenon is the same thing. It exists, but nobody has invented the tools to accurately reveal these signs and symbols.” Until someone created a reading device, it was up to people like her—psychics and mediums—to interpret. They parked outside the ten-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounding the police impound lot. The person in charge wasn’t a police officer in uniform, but a crusty gray-haired man who looked like he knew his way around a junkyard. As soon as Miguel showed his badge, the old man unlocked the gate and slid it aside. After a brief discussion, Miguel agreed to hold the baby so she could concentrate, but he refused to wear the colorfully patterned designer baby sling she’d ordered online. Instead, he tucked the baby in the crook of his arm as he answered his cell phone. Emma picked her way across the gravel lot where most of the snow had melted. Some of these tightly parked cars and trucks looked like they’d been here for years with their tires gone flat and the paint jobs dulled by constant exposure to the elements. Aspen’s beat-up sedan seemed new in comparison. The last time Emma saw this vehicle, shortly after her cousin disappeared, she’d felt confusion and fear as she imagined the desperation Aspen must have experienced as she fled. Similar emotions roiled inside her, but this fear came from her own terrible foreboding that her cousin was never coming back. Please, Aspen, you have to be alive. She had so much to live for. Her son. Her new job as a teacher on the rez. After years of struggling and working lousy jobs at the Ute casino and in Las Vegas, Aspen had finally finished college at the University of Nevada. She’d been so close to reaching her dreams. Miguel strolled up beside her. His calm, no-nonsense attitude reassured her. “That was Patrick on the phone. He has other police business and won’t be joining us. When we’re done here, can you give me a ride back to the lab?” “Sure.” She circled the hood of the car, hoping to get a clue that would lead to her cousin. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Sometimes, when I touch things, I can tap into a spirit energy. In my vision, I saw the car. It must be important.” “If your cousin isn’t dead…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.” “Keep going,” she encouraged. “A mile in my shoes.” “If your cousin isn’t dead, what spirit are you hoping to contact?” “I saw a woman wearing an FBI jacket. I’m not sure, but I think her name is Julie.” He reacted with a start. “And she’s dead?” “Yes.” His jaw tensed. “Don’t play games with me, Emma. You heard something about the FBI investigation. Correct?” “I haven’t heard anything. Why would I?” “The sheriff mentioned it. Or you heard local gossip.” His accusations irritated her. “I’ve barely been out of my house for five weeks, ever since Jack came to live with me.” “What about before that?” “I live alone, and I work at home. When I get together with friends, we don’t discuss FBI investigations.” She confronted him directly. “Who is Julie?” “Agent Julie Grainger. She was murdered in January.” She heard the cry of a bird and whirled around. Crows symbolized death for her. When her aunt Rose passed away, a flock of the big black birds had blanketed her yard. Their cries had been deafening. She looked up, searched the blue skies and saw nothing. No birds at all. But she’d heard something. There was another chirp, and she realized the sound came from Jack. Miguel stroked the baby’s head. “It’s okay, mijo. You’re a good boy.” “Did you know Julie?” “A little.” His jaw unclenched. “Are you okay, Emma? You look pale.” “As if I’ve seen a ghost?” When he smiled, his demeanor changed from hostile to gentle. “I guess that happens a lot to you.” “Too much.” She glanced at Jack when he made another chirp. “Maybe you should take the baby back to my car. I don’t want to frighten him.” “Are you going to do something scary? Roll around on the ground? Squawk like a chicken? Do a voodoo dance?” When she glared at him, he grinned. “You like to tease,” she said. “Life is too sad not to laugh. I mean no disrespect.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. His touch was steady and strong as an anchor in a storm. “Do whatever you need to do. I’m here for you. Nothing bad is going to happen.” A dark mist rolled in at the edge of her vision. She’d just told him to go away, but now she wanted him to stay close, wanted to maintain physical contact. “Don’t go anywhere.” “You got it.” She laid her palm on the hood of the car. Her sight narrowed. Though still aware of the cars and snow in the impound lot, she seemed to be peering down a tunnel. At the end, she saw the tall woman in an FBI jacket. Julie Grainger. Beside her was a teenage girl in a lovely white gown. Words and images raced through Emma’s mind. Rapid-fire. Like film on fast-forward. Then the vision was gone. “What is it?” Miguel asked. Her brain sorted the jumbled impressions. The aspen had been leafy and green. Her cousin was still alive. Julie told her Aspen had escaped. Then she’d made a weaving motion with her hand. A river? A snake? “A trail,” Emma said. “I should start at the beginning and follow the trail.” “From the crime scene.” “Yes. We should start there.” Emma had also seen the VDG symbol again. “VDG is important.” Again, Miguel’s interest picked up. “Is VDG connected to your cousin’s disappearance?” “It could be.” She remembered the girl in the white dress. Her presence had nothing to do with Aspen. She was Miguel’s sister. Teresa. She had died young, less than a year after her quinceanera, the ceremony and party that celebrated the fifteenth birthday of a young woman. Teresa wanted her brother to know that she was all right, that she’d found the light and gone to the other side. Teresa believed that Miguel would understand. But Emma wasn’t sure. Though Miguel seemed more open to her ability as a medium, he might not be ready for contact with his tragically dead sister, and she didn’t want to alienate him. She needed Miguel to help her find Aspen. Looking into his eyes, she measured her words, trying to find a balance between proving to him that she wasn’t a phony and not freaking him out. Teresa had shown her a family photo with Miguel standing beside his brother, who appeared to be the same age. She said, “You’re a twin.” He nodded slowly. “Fraternal, not identical. Alike, but different.” The silver medal he wore around his neck on a chain glittered in the sunlight. Though she couldn’t make out the design, it didn’t appear to be a saint. Instinctively, she reached toward it. When her fingers touched the surface, her hand glowed. She identified the image on the front: El Santuario de Chimayo, near Taos in New Mexico. “Chimayo,” she said. A legendary healing place like Lourdes. The words etched on the back of his medal were Protect and Heal. Teresa wanted her to know that Miguel had been near death, close enough to see the light. His near-death experience was why her ability to communicate with dead people threatened him. He knew she was telling the truth, knew there was something beyond this world. He’d been there. IN THE BACK OF HER CAR, the baby had begun to fuss, and Miguel knew their time for further investigating was limited. He didn’t want to believe that Emma’s pronouncements were anything more than random guesses, but he couldn’t ignore her accuracy. How the hell did she know he was a twin? How had she described his relationship with his brother, Dylan, so accurately? Alike but different. That pretty much summed it up. They were both in law enforcement, but Miguel relied on forensic science while Dylan was a supermacho FBI agent. Emma reached toward the backseat, hoping to calm Jack. “I should get him back home.” “Mijo,” Miguel said. “Give us a break. You’ll be okay.” Immediately, Jack’s cries modified to quiet little sniffles. He was a good baby, a good boy. “Amazing,” Emma said. “I can’t believe the way he responds to your voice. It’s almost like you’re his father.” “His father is a pig. If mijo was my baby boy, I would never abandon him. Family is everything.” “But you’re not married.” “Don’t remind me.” Though he and his brother were thirty-three, neither of the Acevedo twins had found a wife and settled down. “I get enough nagging from my mama.” The leftover snow had melted enough that he could pull onto the shoulder at the edge of the road. This area—where Aspen’s vehicle had been found—was outside Kenner City, but there were houses within sight. There had been no witnesses, no one who stepped forward and said they heard her scream. “This is it,” Emma said. “The start of the trail.” “We won’t find anything here. I did the crime scene analysis. There’s nothing more to be learned.” Not unless she did that weird vision thing. When she’d touched the car in the impound lot, he’d felt the tension in her body. She seemed to catch her breath. Her blue eyes went blank as a corpse. Muy loca, like a trance. But it had lasted less than a minute. If he hadn’t been standing beside her with his hand on her shoulder, he wouldn’t have noticed. She shoved her car door open. “I want to take a look around. Jack seems okay. We can leave him in his car seat.” Reluctantly, he joined her. If she managed to somehow turn up evidence that had been overlooked, he needed to be with her to verify and to maintain proper procedure. Her gaze scanned from left to right and back again. What could she possibly hope to find? The blizzard had erased any footprints. He and the other crime scene investigators had already measured and photographed the skid marks on the pavement. She lifted her chin and gave a sniff. “Now what?” he asked. “Are you channeling a bloodhound to scent the trail?” Instead of bristling, she chuckled. “Might be handy to have a ghost dog. I wouldn’t have to pick up the poop.” “You made a joke, Emma.” “But you didn’t laugh.” “On the inside, I’m in stitches.” “Seriously,” she said, “were search dogs involved?” “There wasn’t time before the blizzard hit.” And he regretted that they hadn’t been able to call on that resource to locate her cousin. “We only had a few hours to process the scene, and the sheriff’s first concern was taking care of Jack.” “I know. As soon as he checked the car’s registration, he came to me with the baby.” Guilt furrowed her brow. “I should have been here, should have gone out into the snow to look for my cousin. But I was overwhelmed. I wasn’t prepared to care for an infant.” “You managed.” “Only because I could order all the baby equipment online. I hired someone to come in four hours a day so I can get my work done, but I’m still sleep-deprived. Sometimes I’m so exhausted that I think I’m losing my mind.” “Losing your mind?” He couldn’t resist teasing. “How can you tell?” “Very funny,” she said. “Laughing on the inside.” She walked to the intersection, turned and walked back toward him. Her purple sneakers dug into the snow and mud. Then she went in the opposite direction. Noises from the baby seat in the back of her SUV reminded him that they didn’t have much time. “We can come back here later.” She hunkered down beside a pile of dirty snow. “Over here.” He joined her. The dark leather of the medallion stood out against the snow. The black design, etched into the leather, was a grizzly paw print. Chapter Three (#ulink_174448bd-cc24-5e14-a0e6-6e143635460c) The coffee at the Morning Ray Caf? on the main street of Kenner City wasn’t as good as the cinnamon-flavored brew at Emma’s house, but Miguel signaled the waitress for a refill as he checked his wristwatch. Dylan was more than fifteen minutes late. It wasn’t like his by-the-book, precise twin to be off schedule by more than a couple of seconds. Ever since Dylan had arrived in Kenner City, he’d been preoccupied; the inside of his head was crammed full with old guilt and new grief. Numero uno was the recent murder of Dylan’s friend and colleague, Agent Julie Grainger. He and three other FBI agents were working overtime on their investigation of Vincent Del Gardo, the former Las Vegas crime boss suspected of Agent Grainger’s murder. Miguel gave a nod to the cute, red-haired waitress who filled his coffee mug. When she grinned and crinkled her nose, her freckles danced. “How are things at the lab? Solve any big crimes lately?” “Have you committed any?” “Not today.” She took her order pad from her apron pocket. “What else can I get you?” “Nothing now, Annie.” She was one of the few people in town he knew by name. He ate a lot of his meals at this cozy little diner where the burritos were good, and the posole was primo. The head cook and owner was Nora Martinez, the sheriff’s mother. Because it was after three o’clock with the lunch rush over and only four other people in the place, Annie lingered at his booth. “Waiting for somebody?” “My brother.” “The FBI agent.” Her smile grew ten times brighter. “He’s really cute.” Women had always responded to Dylan as if he were a rock star, which never made sense. They weren’t identical twins but resembled each other a lot, and the chicas never threw themselves at Miguel. “Better not let Dylan hear you call him cute. That’s a word for baby ducks and puppies.” Annie laughed. “Handsome is a much better word.” If anyone had heard about the FBI investigation, it would be Annie or the people in the caf?, which was frequented by many of the local law enforcement people. “How much do you know about Dylan’s investigation?” “An agent got murdered. A woman agent. One of the other FBI guys was showing her picture around, asking if we’d seen her or noticed her talking to anyone.” “Thanks, Annie.” Miguel thought Emma might have picked up Agent Julie Grainger’s name from talking to someone at the caf? or someone else who had seen the photograph. That’d be a logical explanation for how she came up with Julie’s name. But it didn’t explain the VDG symbol or the grizzly paw necklace. Later this afternoon, he and other forensic technicians would process the necklace in the hope that they might discover the identity of the owner. They probably wouldn’t be lucky enough to find fingerprints—not after it had been buried in the snow at the side of the road all this time. How the hell had he missed finding the necklace when they first swept the scene? Sure, the leather was the color of dirt and would have blended in when there wasn’t snow on the ground. Sure, they’d had other urgent tasks—dusting for prints, measuring skid marks, photographing footprints. Sure, there was a blizzard on the way. But he wouldn’t easily forgive himself for overlooking such an obvious clue. He had to be shown the way by a medium. By Emma. La loca bonita. A crazy, beautiful lady in a purple leather jacket. Dylan came through the front door of the caf? and joined him in the corner booth. “Sorry I’m late.” “No problemo. You okay?” “Don’t worry about me, vato.” Dylan had always been the tough guy, the star athlete, the macho leader of the pack. It bothered Miguel to see his brother rattled. Annie rushed to their booth as soon as Dylan sat down. She placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of his brother and set down two pieces of apple pie. “On the house,” she said in a throaty voice. She leaned close to Dylan, giving him a glimpse of cleavage. “Is there anything else you want?” Miguel couldn’t resist this setup. “My brother likes whipped cream. All over his pie.” Dylan raised a hand. “Not necessary.” The waitress fluttered her lashes. “You can have all the whipped cream you want. Your name is Dylan, right? And I’m Annie.” And I’m yesterday’s fish stew. Amused, Miguel leaned back in the booth and watched as his brother doled out the charm. The guy couldn’t help it. He was a chica magnet. When Annie finally moved away, Dylan said, “What’s so important that I had to see you right away?” “The sheriff and I met with a woman today. Her name is Emma Richardson.” Annie rushed back to their booth. “I love Emma,” she gushed. “She’s a real psychic, you know. She sees things. And she finds missing people.” “Thanks for your opinion,” Miguel said in a quiet, firm tone of dismissal. The time for fun and games was over. He needed to talk seriously with his brother. “We’ll call you if we need anything else.” “Enjoy your pie.” She turned on her heel and flounced back toward the counter. “A psychic,” Dylan grumbled as he dug into his pie. “You interrupted my day to talk about a psychic.” “I was skeptical, too.” Miguel kept his voice low so Annie wouldn’t come running back over to them. “You know I don’t like things that can’t be explained by logic or science.” “You were always the smart brother. El Ganso.” He smirked. “El Nerdo Supremo.” “Because I think with my head, not my huevos.” Miguel fixed his twin with a cool gaze. This wasn’t a time for joking. “I took the psychic—actually, she’s a medium—back to the crime scene where Aspen Meadows disappeared. She had a vision that turned up an important piece of evidence.” Though Dylan continued to eat his pie, Miguel sensed that his brother was interested. “The sheriff still doesn’t have any leads on the missing woman?” “Not yet. I don’t have much hope. Somebody who’s missing for over a month is either dead or doesn’t want to be found.” He frowned. “But Emma Richardson is certain that Aspen is alive. They’re cousins, and Emma is the guardian for the baby.” “The father hasn’t come forward?” “Not yet.” Miguel took out the piece of paper Emma had used to make her notes from the vision. He spread it on the table in front of his brother. “She drew the design of the leather necklace we found at the scene. And also, she drew this.” Dylan picked up paper. His eyes narrowed. “VDG. Vincent Del Gardo.” “There was a symbol like this on that map you showed me—the map that Agent Grainger sent before she died.” Miguel and everybody else in the crime lab had tried every way possible to decipher that map. From satellite GPS to old-fashioned cartography, no one could make sense of those weird twists and turns. It didn’t match any known roads. The map could have been the path of a spreading river. Or trails through the forest. At the counter, Annie was joking and laughing too loudly with a guy who had been sitting there since Miguel came in. He overheard the word psychic and glanced toward them. They had to be talking about Emma, and that bothered him. He checked out the guy so he’d remember what he looked like. He wouldn’t be easy to forget. Though big and barrel-chested, he was a sharp dresser in a fringed leather jacket with a turquoise yoke. The band around his cowboy hat was snakeskin with the rattles still attached. Dylan tapped nervously on the tabletop. His voice went low and quiet. “What does this part of the note mean? A tall woman in an FBI jacket.” There was no easy way to say this. “Emma’s spirit guide for this vision was Julie.” “She saw Julie?” “In the same sense that she sees everything. In her head.” “If this is true,” Dylan said, “it means that the missing woman is connected to Vincent Del Gardo. Connected to Julie’s murder.” “S?, I know.” “This is big. It opens a whole new line of investigation.” “Are you still searching for Del Gardo?” Dylan nodded. “And for the money he’s got stashed away.” Miguel had heard that Del Gardo’s illegal fortune was in excess of fifty million dollars. Not an amount that could be tucked away in a tidy little suitcase. “Your map with the VDG symbol might lead to both.” “Let’s see if your psychic can point us in the right direction.” BEFORE BABY JACK showed up on her doorstep, the bathroom in Emma’s house had been tidy with feminine decorative touches. Now, she had no time for long baths, scented candles and fresh flowers. Her mosaic-tiled countertop held a variety of baby products. She’d known that her life would be different if a man moved in, but she hadn’t expected pacifiers and butt wipes. Confronting her reflection in the mirror, she dabbed a glob of spit-up off the shoulder of her beige turtleneck and ran a comb through her chin-length brown hair. Miguel had called and asked if he and his FBI brother could stop by and ask a few questions. Miguel. She sighed. Miguel Acevedo. She wouldn’t mind having him as a houseguest. He was definitely handsome with those green eyes and strong features, but his greater appeal came from his quick mind. She had to be alert when she was around him. He was a challenge. Also, she needed him to find Aspen. To follow the trail. But where was this trail? Discovering the necklace in the snow was a start, but Emma had no idea what came next. In the mirror, standing beside her, was Grandma Quinn. The resemblance between her and this blue-eyed, elderly lady made her smile. Grandma said, “Why don’t you change that shirt, dear?” Emma didn’t need fashion tips from the other side. “You know I had a vision about Aspen.” “About time.” “I’m supposed to follow a trail or a path. Do you know anything about that?” “Change the shirt.” Grandma faded and vanished, leaving Emma frustrated. All too often, her spirit visits were cryptic hints and vague impressions instead of direct instructions. Why couldn’t Grandma Quinn give her a street address or a phone number? Grabbing the baby monitor, she hurried to the front door and onto the porch to wait for Miguel and his brother. Jack had finally fallen asleep, and she didn’t want the baby wakened by two grown men tromping through the house. When the car pulled into her driveway, a shiver of anticipation went through her, making her realize how glad she was to be seeing Miguel again. He gave her a lopsided grin that made her heart beat a little faster. His twin brother resembled him, but she would never confuse these two men. There was something about Miguel that drew her closer. His was a healing presence, like the words inscribed on the back of his silver Chimayo medal. As she shook hands with Dylan—whose handsome face was somehow enhanced by the scar on his chin—she had the impression that he was kind of scary. His eyes looked haunted. Not in the sense that he had ghosts hanging around him, but he had secrets, many secrets. And he had seen terrible things. “I hope you two don’t mind,” she said, “but I’d rather stay outside. The baby’s asleep, and I don’t want to wake him.” She directed them to a flagstone path that led to the covered patio behind her house. The afternoon sun warmed this western exposure, and there were only a few patches of snow left behind from the blizzard. Within the month, she hoped to start planting her vegetable garden. Most of her other landscaping was shrubs and annual flowers, indigenous to the high plains so they didn’t need much watering in drought years. She sat at the round wrought-iron table with one twin on either side. Miguel held the piece of paper upon which she’d written her impressions from her first vision this morning. “We wanted to talk about the VDG symbol,” he said. With the V standing for Virgin? She sucked in a breath to keep from blurting an embarrassing comment. “I really don’t know where that came from.” “How does that work?” Miguel asked. “It’s called automatic writing,” she said. “Another way the dead communicate through me. I’m holding the pen, but they are directing the strokes. Some people call it channeling.” Watching her intently, he asked, “Does the name Vincent Del Gardo mean anything to you?” She probed her memory and shrugged. “Nothing comes to mind.” “He’s from Las Vegas.” “I’ve only been there twice.” The memory made her smile. “I went to visit Aspen while she was going to college there. She thought, because I’m a medium, that I might be able to beat the odds at gambling. We tried roulette, craps and blackjack. I was lousy at all of them.” Dylan leaned forward. “Your cousin might have mentioned Del Gardo. He had interests in several casinos. Maybe she worked for him.” “I don’t recall.” In her mind, she repeated the name. Vincent Del Gardo. “Are you looking for him? Is he missing?” “Maybe you can find him,” Miguel said. “When you do that missing persons thing with the sheriff, what’s the process?” “Everything I see or hear in a vision comes from someone on the other side. When I’m asleep, they come to me as if in a dream. When I touch something connected with a missing person, I sometimes intersect with the psychic energy of someone close to them who has passed away. I see them. And hear them.” “Give me specifics,” Miguel said. “Last fall, when you told the sheriff that the missing boy was with his father in a motel in Durango, how did you do it?” “I touched some of the boy’s clothing. My vision came from his dead grandmother. She showed me a vision of the room, a wagon wheel and the number seven.” “You’re a medium,” Dylan said. “The FBI works with mediums. I get it.” Miguel asked, “Were you always like this?” “When I was ten years old, Grandma Quinn appeared to me. I was old enough to know that my grandmother was dead and to understand what that meant.” “What did she look like?” Miguel asked. “Just the way she looked in life. But not solid. The best comparison I can make is a hologram. Grandma Quinn wasn’t scary, she hadn’t come to frighten me. She gave me a warning. It saved my life.” Grandma Quinn had told her there was danger, told her that Emma and her mother had to leave the house. Though ten-year-old Emma wept and pleaded, her mother wouldn’t listen. Later that night, when her mother’s abusive boyfriend came home, Emma fled. She ran next door to the neighbor’s and hammered on the door. Remembering caused her hands to draw into fists. Sobbing, Emma had begged them to call the police. They arrived too late. There was a fire in her mother’s bedroom. Both she and her boyfriend were killed. “Emma,” Miguel said, “what are you thinking about?” “A memory.” She met his gaze and saw his struggle to accept what she was saying. “A real-life memory. I’m not crazy.” “We get it,” Dylan said loudly, demanding her attention. “You knew the missing woman. Aspen Meadows.” “I grew up with her. After my mother died, I went to live with my aunt Rose on the rez.” She gestured to her brown hair and blue eyes. “I didn’t fit in with the other kids. Aspen used to tease me, and she resented that I was taking Aunt Rose’s attention away from her. My main goal in life was to get off the reservation. I studied hard and got a full scholarship to University of Colorado when I was sixteen.” “You sound like my brother,” Dylan said. “El Nerdo Supremo,” Miguel said. “Perfect description.” She laughed on the inside. “Anyway, Aspen and I got along better as adults. I kept pushing her to go to college, and she had finally finished her studies. She was coming back to the rez to be a teacher.” A cry from the baby monitor alerted her. “Excuse me? It’s almost time for Jack’s feeding. I need to get a bottle of formula ready.” She hurried into the house through the back door. Still listening to the baby monitor, she went through the motions of preparing the bottle and measuring the formula. Vincent Del Gardo. A casino owner from Las Vegas. She glanced through the kitchen window. Beyond the patio where the twin brothers sat in conversation, she saw a third person—a man with a shaved head and a white beard. A ghost. When he looked toward her and waved, she saw his black-framed glasses. He returned to his task, digging with a spade in the area where she would soon plant her garden. The hole grew quickly. He reached inside and pulled out a handful of gold coins. She blinked, and he was gone. The noises from the baby monitor grew more insistent, but she rushed outside to the patio table. “Buried treasure. Does Del Gardo have something to do with treasure?” Dylan stood. “What did you see?” “An old man with a shaved head and white beard. Thick glasses. He dug up a handful of gold coins.” “That description doesn’t fit Del Gardo,” Dylan said. “To the best of our knowledge, he’s not dead.” “Maybe it wasn’t him. The man I saw didn’t seem like a crime boss. He was kindly. Like a favorite uncle.” “Do you know his name?” Dylan asked. “No.” If she’d known something as obvious as a name, Emma would have mentioned it. She didn’t much care for Dylan’s attitude. Though he’d been quick to accept her abilities as a medium, he seemed hostile. “I want to show you the other VDG symbol,” he said. “After I return to headquarters to pick up that evidence, I’ll be back with my other colleagues.” “Not tonight,” she said. “What?” His tone was abrupt. Apparently, Dylan wasn’t accustomed to having his decisions questioned. “Why not?” “If this symbol leads to other evidence, I need to be free to follow the trail.” “The trail?” Dylan glanced toward his brother. Miguel explained, “A trail of evidence that might lead to Emma’s cousin.” “Tonight,” she said, “I need to stay with the baby. Tomorrow morning, I have someone who comes in to watch him.” “Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock,” Dylan said, turning on his heel and stalking along the flagstone path toward the front of the house. “Let’s go, Miguel.” He rose slowly. His gaze focused on the formula bottle in her hand. “If you want, I can stay. I can help with mijo.” Though it would be wonderful to have his help, she shook her head. “It’s better for me if you go with your brother and calm him down. I don’t want him to come back tomorrow with a dozen federal agents. I can’t let this turn into a sideshow.” He gently took her free hand. “Dylan plows straight ahead like a powerboat and throws up a big wake. You need a more quiet approach. Like a silent canoe across the waters.” She smiled, appreciating his imagery. A silent canoe. It had taken five long weeks for her to get any hint about Aspen’s disappearance, and she didn’t want to jeopardize this tenuous connection with a huge fanfare and many curious eyes watching her. “I want you to come back tomorrow with your brother. Only you.” He gave her hand a squeeze, and she felt a pleasant ripple chase up her arm. “Tomorrow,” he said. “You have my cell-phone number. Call me if you need anything.” She watched as he sauntered along the flagstone path, and she was tempted to call him back. Miguel made her feel safe and protected. She wanted him to stay close to her. But there wasn’t time right now to indulge in such a fantasy. She returned to the house and went directly to her bedroom where Jack’s bassinette sat beside her four-poster bed. His little face scrunched up as he let out a loud cry. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay, mijo.” Miguel’s word for the baby slipped easily through her lips. She liked the way it sounded. As she lifted him onto her shoulder, she heard the front doorbell. Was it Miguel coming back? She rushed through the house and opened the door. Standing on her front stoop was a very large man in a fringed leather jacket with a turquoise yoke. Chapter Four (#ulink_6362876d-3166-5e66-83c7-bffe057832d7) Only a flimsy, unlocked screen door stood between Emma and this stranger. In spite of his colorful jacket, he was dark and dangerous. She didn’t need a psychic vision to know that she’d be crazy to invite this man into her house. He must have noticed her hesitation because he stepped back a pace and politely removed his brown cowboy hat. The band was snakeskin with the rattles still attached. His thinning hair, streaked with gray, lay flat against his skull. His attempt at a smile seemed like an aberration, as if his face were unaccustomed to friendly expressions. “My name is Hank Bridger,” he said in a whispery voice. “Are you Emma Richardson?” “Yes.” Still holding Jack on her shoulder, she calculated how long it would take for her to slam the door and race through the house to safety. She had a pistol on the upper shelf in her bedroom closet, but it wasn’t loaded. “Annie at the Morning Ray Caf? told me that you’re a psychic. She gave me your address.” Thanks a heap, Annie. “What else did she tell you?” “That you can help me.” The attempted smile slipped off his long face. Deep lines carved furrows across his forehead and around his mouth. “Ma’am, I’d be willing to pay for your time.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Bridger. Annie gave you the wrong impression. I’m not for hire.” “I’m trying to find my brother. He’s been missing since January, and I’m at the end of my rope.” She couldn’t help being sympathetic to Bridger’s cause. Like her, he was searching for a relative who had disappeared. Jack wriggled on her shoulder and she lowered him to the crook of her arm. He waved his little arms and let out a yell. “The baby is due for a feeding. This isn’t a convenient time.” “I can come back.” He slapped his hat back onto his head. “Later tonight?” “Not tonight,” she said firmly. “But maybe tomorrow afternoon. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to help you.” “How does it work when you get these visions? Annie said you have to touch something that belonged to the missing person.” “Sometimes that helps. If you’ll excuse me, I—” Without warning, he whipped open the screen door, grasped her hand and pressed a round disc into her palm. He stepped back immediately, allowing the door to swing shut. The suddenness shocked her. Who would have thought such a big man could move so fast? Looking down at her hand, she saw a hundred-dollar poker chip. “Las Vegas,” she said. That explained a lot. Bridger was a Vegas cowboy, not someone who actually rode the range. “Vegas is my brother’s hometown.” Was Hank Bridger somehow connected with Vincent Del Gardo, the casino owner? Though it seemed an unlikely coincidence, she firmly believed that everything happened for a reason. Bridger might lead to the next step on the path to finding her cousin. She turned the chip over in her hand. The outer circle of dark gold was edged with green letters spelling out Centurion Casino. She’d been to that Roman-themed establishment when she visited Aspen. She remembered lots of marble and elephant statues. Bridger leaned closer to the screen door. “You see something. What can you tell me?” Jack gave a series of yips—sounds that usually led to sustained wailing. And she couldn’t blame him. He was hungry. “I have to go.” “Keep the chip,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.” As he walked down the sidewalk, she closed the front door and flipped the dead bolt. Though it was possible that destiny had brought Hank Bridger to her doorstep, the fates weren’t always kind. In her early morning vision, the man with the leather necklace wanted to kill her. Bridger—in his fringed jacket and snakeskin boots—wasn’t that man. But there might be a connection. She needed to be cautious. While she got Jack changed, she considered taking her gun down from the top shelf and loading it. Probably not a good plan. She hadn’t fired the gun in over three years. Leaning over the changing table, she nuzzled Jack’s tummy. “I’d probably shoot my foot off.” He giggled in response. “Yes, indeedy.” She crooned as she picked up his tiny pink feet and kissed his toes. “Yes, I would. I’d probably shoot my footsie right off.” Having a baby in the house changed everything. If Emma had been alone, she wouldn’t have been so concerned about Bridger. But there was more than her own safety to worry about. She might need help. It occurred to her that Miguel was only a phone call away. With Jack freshly diapered and dressed in a green-and-yellow footed sleeper, she settled with him in the solidly built, antique rocking chair with the carved oak back. Before the baby came to live with her, she hardly ever used this piece of furniture. But the rocking chair made a perfect nest for bottle feeding. As soon as she plugged the nipple in his mouth, he slurped vigorously. Her gaze surveyed her eclectic living room. From the clean lines of the beige patterned sofa to the burgundy velvet Queen Anne chair, she’d picked every piece with care, sparing no expense. She focused on the telephone resting on the spindle-legged table. Would Miguel think she was too needy if she called? Or was she being prudent and sensible? Hank Bridger was a menacing character who had come out of nowhere. After Jack was fed, she paced with the baby on her shoulder. More than an hour had passed since Bridger came to her door. If he intended to return, he would have done so. Unless he was waiting for darkness. Better safe than sorry. She picked up the phone and punched in the number on the card Miguel had left behind. He answered after the first ring. “Emma. What’s wrong?” As soon as she heard his voice, she felt like a coward. “I’m probably overreacting. But this guy showed up at my house, wanting me to help him find his missing brother. And he gave me a hundred-dollar chip from the Centurion Casino.” “I’ll be right there.” “That’s not necessary. I was just wondering if…” He’d already hung up. As she disconnected, she felt herself smiling. For most of her life, she’d been on her own—proudly independent and able to take care of herself. This was a change. It felt good to have someone to call—a strong, capable man with intoxicating green eyes. A man who could watch over her and mijo Jack. Standing at the front window, she watched through the Irish lace curtains as the sunlight segued into dusk. The house across the street had turned on their lights, probably getting ready to sit down to dinner. Should she offer Miguel something to eat? Like what? She hadn’t taken anything out of the freezer this morning to thaw. Her plans for this evening were opening a can of soup or zapping a frozen dinner in the microwave. His motorcycle thrummed as he swooped up her driveway and parked the sleek, powerful Harley. He wasn’t wearing protective headgear. Not illegal, Colorado didn’t have helmet laws, but she disapproved of the risk. At the same time, she loved the way his black hair was tousled by the wind. Still astride the Harley, he peeled off his dark glasses and stowed them in the pocket of his denim jacket. Only once in her life had Emma dared to ride on the back. She’d been terrified. And exhilarated. She scurried to the front door, flipped the dead bolt and opened it wide. Though the fading sunlight was dim, his green eyes glowed with reassuring warmth. “I’m glad you called,” he said. “I saw what you wrote on that piece of paper where you described your vision.” She’d scribbled a lot of things. “What was that?” “You made a note. ‘Aspen got away, but you will die.’” He stepped inside and looked around, peering into the shadows in the corners. “What made you write that?” She remembered the faceless man with the knife, the darkness, the blade slashing toward her throat. Some of the things she saw weren’t meant to be shared. “You can’t take my visions literally. Sometimes, death doesn’t necessarily mean physically dying. It could be a death of hope. Or well-being. Or a relationship.” “But I’m a literal kind of guy. You said that you were being chased. Then what?” “The man with the leather necklace caught me. He had a knife. He said those words.” “The man who came to your door, was it him?” “I don’t think so. He’s not the sort of guy who’d wear a beat-up leather necklace. His name is Hank Bridger. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. Kind of a snazzy dresser.” “Fringed jacket? A hat with a rattlesnake band?” She gave a surprised nod. “Now who’s the psychic?” “I saw him in the Morning Ray Caf?, talking to the waitress.” He lifted Jack from her shoulder and nuzzled the top of the baby’s head. “Hey, mijo, did you miss me?” Jack gurgled and rewarded him with a great, big smile. He was so sweet, so perfect and innocent. If anything happened to him, she’d never forgive herself. “Bridger claimed to be searching for his brother. He gave me something that belonged to the missing man. A hundred-dollar chip from the Centurion Casino.” “Del Gardo has financial interests in the Centurion.” “I didn’t get any particular vibe from the chip.” “No problemo. I can.” “Get vibes? How?” “Fingerprints.” He tucked Jack into the crook of his arm. “Show me the way to your computer. Let’s do some quick research on Hank Bridger.” She walked through the living room, turning on lights as she went. At the end of the hallway, she opened the door to her office. Very few people had been inside this room. Not the woman who came in twice a month to clean. Not the sitter who took care of Jack in the mornings. Emma had several reasons to keep her work private. If anyone found out what she was really doing at her computer, her financial well-being would be threatened. This secret couldn’t be shared with anyone. Not even Miguel. AS HE WENT THROUGH her house, Miguel switched his brain to analytical mode, as if studying a crime scene. His work included more than collecting trace evidence. The greater clues often came from objects or decoration or color. He could learn much about Emma by studying her home. His first impression: feminine. Even if he had spent way too much time noticing her slender waist and the way her hips flared into a sexy curve, he would have known a woman lived in this house because of the velvet chair, the lampshade with dangling red crystals and the pastel watercolor paintings on the walls. The paintings were signed, maybe originals. Many of the other items looked expensive. He concluded that Emma was a woman of varied tastes and had the money to indulge them. Her office was different. Apart from the high-tech equipment, it was as plain as a monk’s cell. No plants. No candles. No photos. Papers were stacked and sorted in bins. One wall, floor to ceiling, was solid books. In an alcove that had probably once been a closet, he saw file cabinets and shelving filled with supplies. Two long desks angled to form an L-shape. One side was a workstation with her desktop computer, scattered notes and books. The other held a printer, scanner, fax and copy machine. Her office was designed for real-life, practical business—nothing psychic or weird. Nothing personal. “Nice setup,” he commented. “What kind of work do you do?” “This and that.” An evasive answer if he’d ever heard one. “The sheriff said you were a consultant.” “That sounds about right.” Most people liked to talk about their area of expertise, but her lips pressed together as if holding back. Finding out what she did in this office was the key to understanding a different side to Emma. He checked out the titles on the reference books. How to Build a Bomb. Encyclopedia of Firearms. Deciphering Codes. “If I had to guess,” he said, “I’d say you were doing consulting work for the Department of Defense.” “Why on earth would you think that?” “Your reading material looks like you’re planning to take over the world. Or training to be a spy.” The idea of Emma—a woman who wore purple leather—taking on the world of espionage tickled him. “Or maybe you want to be macho.” “I’ll leave that to you,” she said as she swept her notes off the desktop and dumped them in the top drawer, which she closed tightly. “Why do you need my computer?” He passed the baby to her and took a seat in front of the flat screen and keyboard. “I’ll link with my computer at the lab, using my password. We’ll see if your Hank Bridger has a criminal record.” Computers weren’t his specialty, but Miguel knew the basics. Hooking up with the lab computer while he was in the field at a crime scene came in handy. He went through the steps, feeding in Bridger’s name—Hank or Henry—for a nationwide search. “Running this data could take a few minutes.” He stood and cleared his throat to cover the growling from his empty belly. The last thing he’d eaten was the apple pie at the caf?. When Emma called, he’d been in the parking lot of the Morning Ray, close enough to smell the rich, hot, spicy chili. Food would have to wait. First, he needed to make sure Emma and mijo would be safe for the night. “Do you have a security system on your house? Burglar alarms?” “Most of the time, I don’t even lock the doors. Until recently, Kenner City hasn’t been a hotbed of criminal activity.” Parallel worry lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Can I offer you dinner?” Mucho gusto. His stomach danced for joy. “I could eat.” “Let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll see what I can scare up.” He followed her, catching a glimpse through the open door of her bedroom. The wood on the four-poster bed matched the dresser and side tables. More high-quality stuff. Even Jack’s bassinette and changing table were classy. Since he knew she hadn’t inherited money, he assumed that whatever kind of work she did in her office paid her very well. She settled Jack into a baby seat on her kitchen table and flipped the switch on the CD player resting on the countertop. Soft music spilled into the room. “Classical,” he said. “Not my favorite, but I read somewhere that Mozart is recommended for babies.” Not for any of the babies he knew, but Miguel didn’t argue. While she dug through her refrigerator, he surveyed the room from a safety standpoint. The back door seemed solid but didn’t have a dead bolt. The three windows looked like they’d been replaced recently and were double-pane. Not that the extra thickness would stop an intruder. If Hank Bridger wanted to get to Emma, those windows wouldn’t be an obstacle. “Do you ever worry about getting robbed?” he asked. “Not so much. If I’m out of town, I pay someone to house-sit.” The only way for Miguel to guarantee she’d be safe would be to stay here himself. The sheriff didn’t have the manpower to provide a bodyguard, and the same was true for the FBI. Law enforcement didn’t get involved in protective custody until after an attack. Then, it was too late. She pulled a container from the freezer. “Lasagna?” He was starving, and it would take hours to thaw that brick of pasta. “I have a better idea. I’ll make a run to the caf? and pick up a couple of burritos.” “Great idea. Cooking isn’t really my thing.” After she shoved the lasagna back into the freezer, she whirled around and beamed an unexpected smile in his direction. The worry in her face disappeared. Her blue eyes shimmered like sunlight on a mountain lake. The analytical side of his brain shut down. As he stared at her, he forgot the potential danger that brought him here. The soft piano sonata from the CD player painted the air with soft pastels, like her watercolor paintings—colors that suited a gentle, graceful woman with silky brown hair. He almost felt like they were on a date. “Thank you for coming over here so quickly,” she said. “My pleasure.” Earlier he’d been thinking he should stay at her house as a bodyguard. Now he had another reason altogether. He wanted to be here, wanted to be with her. “I should get going. To the caf?.” Shyly, she bit her lower lip. “Hurry back.” EMMA WATCHED THROUGH the front window as Miguel climbed onto his Harley and drove away. Calling him had been one of the best decisions she’d ever made. Humming along to Mozart, she meandered into the kitchen, where she sorted through a few things she could cook for tomorrow. Cooking for Miguel? The thought was both exciting and terrifying. Her culinary talents had never progressed beyond making a salad. Preparing an elaborate dinner for one didn’t interest her. After a little tidying up, she went into her bedroom, placed Jack on the comforter and stretched out beside him. Since her reading time was limited to short spurts between baby care, magazines had taken the place of books. The glossy pages flipped through her fingers and landed on an article titled, “How To Make Him Hot For You.” She scanned the checklist: perfume, lip gloss, smoky eyes, flirty clothes. Touch him frequently. Find out what you have in common. “Not much,” she said to Jack. “We’re pretty much opposites.” And she was far too mature to follow the advice of a magazine article. “But maybe a dab of perfume wouldn’t hurt.” When she rose from the bed, she saw Grandma Quinn standing in the doorway. Her voice was a thin whisper. “Emma, get out of the house. There’s danger.” “What?” “Take the baby and run.” Chapter Five (#ulink_c6f0626c-816e-52aa-abe7-7e498c9cfdcc) Fear chased Emma backward in time—all the way back to when she was a child. Grandma Quinn had warned her of danger, told her to run away and save herself. In a way, she’d been running ever since. She’d spent her life avoiding risk, keeping safe. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/cassie-miles/criminally-handsome/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.