Rocky Mountain Mystery. Cassie Miles

voice echoed back at her, and she could hear the sound of her own fear. Her panic. He could be anywhere. Hiding inside the stairwell. Ducked behind another parked car.

      In spite of the stink, she climbed behind the steering wheel of her Camry and locked the doors. The inside of her head whirled like a centrifuge. She was about to black out. An overwhelming vortex dragged her down into darkness. She was falling, unable to catch herself.

      She blinked, forcing herself to see. Through the windshield, the concrete wall wavered as her vision faded. The light and shadow blurred.

      Fighting dizziness, she turned the key in the ignition. Her fingers shook. She had to get away from here. Slowly she backed from her slot, turned and drove up the ramp onto the street where May sunlight splashed in a burst of ironic cheerfulness.

      Breathing hard, she drove to the corner, turned right, drove two more blocks and parked. The sense of vertigo began to ebb, leaving her trembling and confused. She stared out at the street. Quite literally, she didn’t know which way to turn.

      It wouldn’t do any good to return to the condo, run upstairs and lock her door. He knew where she lived.

      Call the cops? Eventually, she’d turn over the dead fish for forensic analysis. There might be prints or fibers. But right now she wasn’t ready to face a police interrogation.

      Escape? She could move in with a friend. Go to Tucson and stay with her parents. But what if he followed? She couldn’t be responsible for bringing danger to someone else’s doorstep.

      Blair knew what she must do.

      The dead fish in the passenger seat took precedence over her prudent, don’t-get-involved attitude. Like it or not, she was a part of this inquiry. She needed to be at the autopsy.

      And she wanted David at her side.

      After a stop at a convenience store, where she bought a newspaper and used it to wrap the fish, which she stashed in the trunk, she got back into the driver’s seat and rolled down all the windows hoping to blow away the stench. Ventilation didn’t help. The disgusting odor clung to her, sinking deep into her pores, reminding her of the danger. He’d been close enough to put the dead fish in her car. And he could come even closer.

      Checking the address on the business card David had given her, she aimed toward the Cherry Creek area. Though David lived only fifteen minutes away from her high-rise—close enough that they both went to the same grocery store—his town house was obviously in a higher tax bracket. The row of six two-story units, set back from the street, were expensively charming with molded stucco curves swooping around large windows. Each unit had its own attached garage. To afford a place like this, David must be doing very well for himself.

      Walking up the sidewalk to his door, Blair hesitated. How could David help her? He wasn’t a cop. What did she expect from him?

      Comfort, she decided. Earlier today, when he’d held her and kissed her, she experienced a blissful relief. For that one moment in his arms, she forgot about her failures, her scars and her disappointments. She felt nearly happy, and she needed that feeling again—something to erase the stinking miasma of threat and danger.

      Jabbing with her index finger, she pressed the buzzer.

      The door opened. Jake Zitti! Though his thinning hair was now shaved bald, Blair knew him. There he was. The man who had destroyed her life. She saw confusion in his dark eyes, a nervous quiver at the corner of his mouth.

      As she stared at him, she felt…nothing. She was detached—as if she’d surgically removed this cancerous man from her life. Jake the Snake was nothing to her, less than zero.

      “Where’s David?” she asked.

      “Hey, Blair. It’s great to see you.”

      Not bothering with a polite response, she pushed past him into the town house. “David?”

      He appeared in the foyer, carrying a gun.

      She pointed at the automatic pistol. “What are you doing?”

      “Cleaning my weapon.”

      From behind her back, she heard Jake snicker as he said, “Polishing his rod.”

      What a jerk!

      Jake continued, “Checking his clip.”

      Ignoring him, Blair said to David, “I’ve decided to observe the autopsy. Come with me. I’d like you to drive.”

      “Let’s go.”

      He came toward her with the Glock automatic still in his hand. Though Blair was concerned about the fishy threat from the Fisherman, she didn’t want to drag David into the role of protector. “When was the last time you fired that thing?”

      “Years ago.”

      At the Coroner’s Office there were dozens of armed police. She ought to be safe. “Leave the gun.”

      “Right.” He handed the pistol to Jake. “Put this away. Someplace safe.”

      As they whisked out the door, Jake called after them. “Have fun. See you. Bye.”

      “Jackass,” David muttered under his breath.

      “Does he live with you?”

      “Temporarily. He moved in about a week and a half ago after his latest girlfriend kicked him out.” David flinched as if trying to shake off the sticky tentacles of an unpleasant parasite. “I’m sorry you had to run into him like this.”

      “Doesn’t bother me,” she said. “I always wondered what would happen when I saw him again. Now I know.”

      “You’ve forgiven him?”

      “Not really,” she said. “But hating takes too much effort.”

      At the curb, David held open the passenger door to a bronze Acura and she climbed inside. She fastened her seat belt and gritted her teeth. Ever since the accident, she was uncomfortable riding in cars when other people were driving. This time, she had no choice; the stink made her own vehicle unbearable.

      David started up the car. “Why did you change your mind about the autopsy?”

      “Why did you have a gun in your hand?”

      He gave her one of his poignant half grins. “I’m the reporter. I’m the one who’s supposed to answer a question with a question.”

      Blair knotted her fingers together on her lap and kept her eye trained on the road, alert to any potential hazard as he pulled away from the curb. “You first.”

      “The gun is for self-defense. I don’t know how dangerous this investigation might get, and I want to be prepared.”

      “The Fisherman never attacks men.”

      “Not yet.” He turned west on Eighth Avenue, merging with acceptable expertise. “You changed your mind. It sounds like you’re certain that we’re dealing with the original Fisherman.”

      “Maybe.”

      “Less than an hour ago, you told me he was in jail and the current murder might be the work of a copycat. What happened, Blair?”

      A gutted trout in the passenger seat of her car didn’t seem so scary now that she was with David. And she didn’t want to admit that she’d been terrified by a fish, driven to the brink of passing out.

      She pointed to a minivan that edged too close on the passenger side. “Watch out for this guy.”

      David slowed to let the minivan pull ahead on the three-lane street approaching central Denver. “Why did you change your mind?”

      “Gosh, you’re persistent.” She fidgeted. “Let’s just say that I didn’t have anything better to do this afternoon.”

      “Did you tell Adam you’d be at the autopsy?”

      “I