Protective Duty. Jessica R. Patch

Eric cleared his throat. “You really like this job, don’t you?”

      “I like putting a dent in evil’s fender.” She rubbed her clammy hands on her pants. “I... I had to do something. I couldn’t just hop in a pool and pretend if I kept swimming laps what happened to your family, to mine, wouldn’t exist.”

      “So you moved to Ohio with your parents?”

      “After Rand’s trial. Yes. We all needed...new.” And yet she was back. For another fresh start.

      Eric popped the lid off his coffee cup and sipped. “Why did you come back to Memphis?”

      She hadn’t answered him last night. Wasn’t sure she had the answer. And him asking had hurt. Was he sorry she’d come back? How could a place with so many horrifying memories also provide her with some comfort? Familiarity? Or because her best memories—many of them involving Eric—were in Memphis? “Point is I’m here. And we have a job to do. Can we try to set aside the pain and our past? At least to get through this case?” She’d crumble if she didn’t build a wall.

      Eric’s nostrils flared, and he flexed his right hand—a hand that used to stroke her cheek often or meld with her own, fingers laced together. “Compartmentalize. I’m good at that.”

      Didn’t she know it, and he generally used humor to do it. “Okay, I can read the files all day long, but I want to hear about the investigation from you. By the way—” she stole another sip of her brew “—your handwriting is atrocious.”

      Eric walked to the board. “We got a call on our first victim on a Friday morning back in the beginning of May. Female in a park in Collierville. Thirty-eight. Hair and clothing damp. Turned out to be a professor at Rhodes. Cat Weaver. Married. Daughter in high school.”

      “Taught sociology.”

      Eric nodded. “No assault. Just drowning. No drugs in her system, but then we didn’t know of anything specific to check. Stomach contents showed it was regular ol’ city water she drowned in. Same with the other two and I’ll guess same with our newest victim, Bridgette Danforth.”

      Bryn flipped through reports. “Victim two was found in early July. Victim three in early September, but he broke pattern by striking again now in October instead of next month.” Something must have triggered the escalation, giving Towerman and the mayor reason to pull her in so quickly.

      The killer’s pattern had changed now, making him unpredictable.

      “Wish we knew why. There’s nothing to indicate they’d been bound. Just walked off willingly with this guy. All cars abandoned, like Bridgette’s. We snooped on the husbands and the exes. Didn’t find anything. Alibis checked out.”

      Would any of them have gone willingly with the guy that had assaulted Bryn in the park? Which reminded her. “I drew that tribal tattoo. Had one of our analysts run tattoo recognition software through NCIC and the Department of Homeland Security. Maybe we’ll get a match. But I made a copy in case you might have seen it or heard about it when interviewing family and friends.”

      She showed him the picture and he shook his head. “No, nothing ever mentioned about a tattoo. Man, I’d love a break in this case. Been praying and trusting God every day for one.”

      Looked as if Eric’s faith hadn’t been destroyed. She almost asked him how he’d stayed strong. Instead she focused on the case and stared at victim number two’s photo. “Tell me more about her.”

      Eric pointed to her photo on the board. “Kendra Kennick. She worked for a PR firm. Tulley & Comer. They handle everything from campaigns to scandals. She had a few angry letters.”

      “I read them. Nothing I’d red flag. Steam blowing mostly.”

      “Still, I chased those leads.”

      “And?” Bryn cocked an eyebrow.

      “Steam blowing.” Eric smirked. “She left behind a husband and two children. Eight and five. The mayor jumped in at that point. Family friend. Kendra helped him with his last mayoral campaign.”

      “Hmm. Was the mayor at Rhodes’s fund-raising gala? The one our sociology professor vanished from?”

      Eric tipped his head. “He’s a piece of work, but I’m not sure he’s a serial killer.”

      Bryn shrugged. “Was he there?”

      Eric’s neck flushed. “I never checked.”

      “Check. Can we link him to the other two victims?” Bryn wasn’t ruling him out. Darkness often masqueraded as light.

      “He knows Bridgette Danforth. He’s been a guest on Wake-Up Memphis.”

      Bryn stood and crossed to the board. “And what about victim three, Annalise Hemingway? Can we connect them?”

      Eric inhaled. Exhaled. “I wouldn’t think directly. She’s a divorce attorney and he’s still with his wife—”

      “But he kept Kendra Kennick, the PR specialist, on retainer. What if she wasn’t only helping him with his campaign? What if he had marital issues? Maybe his wife gave Annalise a visit. She does specialize in high-profile divorces. Maybe the threat of Annalise scared him faithful...or more discreet.” She only represented wives, which was also interesting. “How long was Annalise divorced? Ten years?”

      “Yes. From Alan Markston. He’s remarried to a girl fresh out of private-school-plaid skirts and oxford shoes. Like I said, alibi checked out. But I got a gut feeling he was a real tool.”

      “Lovely.” Bryn would like to pay him a visit. “I guess it’d be a dumb question to ask if she had enemies.”

      “She was the go-to attorney if you wanted to squeeze blood from a turnip out of your not-so-better half.” Eric reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a package of Twizzlers. “You want?” He held one out.

      Bryn heaved a sigh. “Strawberry?”

      “Is there any other flavor?” An incredible, lady-killer grin filled his face.

      “Cherry for one.” She held her hand up and passed on the chewy strip of licorice.

      “Ones that count.” He popped the edge in his mouth like a cigarette and stared at the board. Sweet strawberry flavor wafted into her nostrils.

      “Let’s swing by and chat with Bridgette’s ex-husband and then hit the station and talk to her coworkers. See if we can figure out where she was the night before. Tomorrow or later tonight I can interview past victims’ family and friends. And we’ll need to cover her condo.”

      “I already had her cell phone sent in to one of your analysts. They’re pulling calls and texts. Her purse and contents are in Evidence.”

      “If her purse was in her car, then she was likely taken from the station. Security footage?”

      “Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. None.”

      “Thanks. For...being so cooperative. I appreciate it.” She tried not to get too lost in those brown eyes.

      Eric shifted a shoulder up, chewed, swallowed. “You driving or me?”

      “How about you? I need to reacquaint myself with the city.” She grabbed her purse, slipped on her knee-length charcoal-gray trench and belted it at the waist. When she glanced up at Eric, he turned away. Had he been checking her out? The thought stirred a flutter in her stomach. The last thing she needed was to feel flutters over Eric Hale.

      * * *

      Eric’s throat turned to sawdust. He’d told himself a thousand times he wasn’t going to appreciate her femininity. It was all professional. He was going to pretend she was his real partner, Luke—with a scruffy jaw and the annoying habit of popping his knuckles. But when she cinched the belt at her slender waist and her hair fell past her shoulders, the five o’clock shadow disappeared, and he caught himself admiring