she’d been on time last night, it could’ve been her in the morgue and not Jillian Mitchell, a little voice in the back of her head stated. She couldn’t use rock music to block out the voice now.
Leah’s fingers were as cold as ice cubes thanks to the frigid air. She flexed and released them a couple of times before placing her hand on the butt of her still-holstered weapon. She’d stick around until an officer arrived.
Confronting this guy without backup would be taking an unnecessary risk. Leah decided it would be best to put enough distance between them to stay out of sight. As she eased back a few steps, the man popped to his feet and wheeled around to face her.
She sidestepped behind a tree. Anything—even a tree trunk—between them would slow down a bullet if he had a gun. It might not provide complete protection but it was better than nothing.
“Hold it right there,” she shouted, using the authoritative cop voice reserved for all threatening situations. “I’m a police officer. Don’t take one step closer. Hands where I can see them now.”
“I’m not moving.” True to his word, he froze. His hands flew into the air, palms facing her. She scanned them for any signs of a weapon and could see that they were empty. Well, almost empty. On closer examination, he wore plastic gloves. A knot formed in her stomach, braiding her lining.
Experience had taught her that empty hands didn’t mean there was no weapon present. A bullet had grazed her shin during her sophomore year as a patrol officer on a domestic violence call that had seemingly come out of nowhere. She tabled the glove-wearing part for now, careful not to reveal her suspicion that he was the Porter’s Bend Killer.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to steady her heart rate and keep a clear head.
“Take it easy.” The man was tall. Six feet four inches if Leah had to guess. Through his unzipped denim jacket she could see that he worked out. His muscled thighs had stretched and released as he stood. His thick sandy blond hair was tightly clipped with curls at the edges. He was too far for her to see the color of his eyes but his face was all sharp angles, like the kind that looked a little too good on a billboard in a major city. He seemed familiar. Did she know him?
“What are you looking for?” she asked, trying to dig for a little more information. If he was a criminal—and specifically the one her department was looking for—the more she got him talking, the more chances he had to make a slip.
“My keys,” he said. His voice was masculine. The kind that sounded like it was used to being in charge of a situation.
“What’s in your front right pocket?” she asked. “I see something.”
“I, uh—” He didn’t glance down and that told her he knew exactly where his keys were. It wasn’t uncommon for a perp to return to the scene of a crime but normally they came with search parties when the victim was missing. Jillian Mitchell had very much been found.
“Save the story.” She leveled her gaze on the man. “What are you really looking for?”
“What did you say your name was?” he shot back.
“I didn’t.”
“Then we have nothing left to say.” He turned his back to her.
There was no way she’d shoot without being provoked but this maneuver said he knew it.
“Stop right there,” she warned.
“And if I don’t?” he asked.
“What are the gloves for?” She used her cop voice to show him just how serious she was.
He froze.
“You better start talking here unless you want to do it downtown. We can start with your name,” she continued.
“It’s cold. These were all I had in the glove box,” he said.
She didn’t immediately answer. He was being bold, challenging her. Perhaps he was an amateur crime solver or someone hired by the Mitchell family. They had money.
Either way, this guy could be trampling on evidence.
“Detective Cordon,” she relented, leaving off the bit about being a newly minted detective. She lowered her weapon. “Identify yourself now or they’ll do it for you at Tarrant County Jail.”
He turned around and she nodded toward the badge clipped to the waistline of her jogging pants.
His eyes lingered there a little longer than she was comfortable and heat flushed her cheeks. That was the great part about having skin the color of milk. It was near impossible to hide her emotions.
“Deacon Kent,” he said. Why did that name sound familiar?
“Do you have any knowledge of the crime committed here last night?”
“Only what I read in the Fort Worth Star Telegram this morning.” His voice was calm.
There could be benefits to publicity on a case. Leah didn’t like it in this instance. Stories spawned copycats and brought out all kinds of wackos. In Mr. Kent, she saw neither and that could mean he was close to Jillian Mitchell, looking for vigilante justice.
This case set Leah’s nerves on edge. The brutality of the attack made it look like a revenge killing. Not to mention this had happened on her trail. Leah matched the description of the victim, which had happened in cases before but always gave her the prickly sensation of a cat walking over a grave.
She couldn’t count how many times her well-being had been threatened by jerks she’d arrested while on the job. But the thought of someone actually trying to make good didn’t sit well.
“The Telegram reports on crime every day. You show up at every crime scene?” she asked Mr. Kent.
He hesitated in answering and that meant one thing.
Deacon Kent was hiding something.
DEACON FIGURED HE’D better come clean with the detective. The woman picked him apart with her gaze. “That’s the only reason I’m here. The story in the paper. And, no, I don’t show up at crime scenes uninvited.”
Her brow shot up. The detective’s long wavy hair—the color of richly blended coffee—fell well past her shoulders, framing a face too delicate for the badge clipped on her hip. At a little more than five and a half feet tall, wearing jogging pants that hugged a taut figure, her gaze said she was a force to be reckoned with.
“What made you come out tonight?” she asked.
He let that one go.
“I can drag you down to the station to talk if you’d be more comfortable,” she said in more of a hiss.
That may be true, but Deacon wasn’t doing anything 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.”