Rocky Mountain Mystery. Cassie Miles

the edge of the pool, she ducked her head under the water so her bangs would plaster over her forehead, covering the scar near her hairline. She assumed that David would revise his opinion of how “great” she looked if he could see the Frankenstein scars on her right leg.

      “You’re the one who’s looking good,” she said. He’d aged well. The hint of silver in his thick, black hair added a touch of mature elegance. Though he was smiling, his grin was incomplete—lifting only on the left side in a way that made his face seem asymmetrical and interesting. She wondered if he had ever truly smiled after the death of his sister. “I saw you on TV. Some program about serial murders in Texas.”

      Her voice echoed in the tiled pool room, giving this meeting a surreal, dreamlike quality—as if she were imagining these two men at the edge of the pool.

      Adam didn’t stoop to talk to her. Though he’d left the military years ago, he maintained a rigid posture. He said, “Blair, I have a project for you.”

      “Go ahead.”

      “It’s about the Fisherman.”

      She bobbed under the water again. I don’t want to hear this! Five years ago, before her life came undone, the Fisherman serial murders had been her case. She’d autopsied all six of the victims. “I really don’t think I want to—”

      “Get out of the damn pool,” Adam said. “We can’t have a sensible conversation while you’re splashing around like a dolphin.”

      She looked away from Adam, turning her attention toward David. If she left the sheltering waters, he’d see her poor, battered leg. He’d notice her clumsy stride; he was a reporter and noticed everything.

      “Blair.” Adam repeated her name as if she should snap to attention. “This consultation has important ramifications.”

      “Like what?”

      “There was a murder last night in City Park. Some of the particulars resemble the Fisherman crimes.”

      She shuddered. Though she’d heard a news flash on the radio, she had no idea about the connection. “But it can’t be the Fisherman. He’s in jail.”

      “Maybe not,” David said. “What if the wrong guy was convicted?”

      “No way.” She couldn’t accept that possibility; it was too scary. During the earlier investigation, there had been threats aimed directly at her. The Fisherman knew who she was, knew her preferences and habits. “Eddy Adderly was convicted. After he was put in jail, there were no more murders.”

      “Until now,” David said.

      “That doesn’t fit any kind of psychological profile. Serial killers don’t take five years off before striking again.”

      “Out of the pool,” Adam ordered. He held her towel. “Come on, Blair.”

      “What’s the big rush?”

      “I’ve arranged for you to observe the autopsy on this victim. This afternoon at 1530.”

      “What time is that in civilian terms?”

      Adam rolled his eyes. “Three-thirty this afternoon. At the Coroner’s Office.”

      An autopsy? At her old office? A bevy of emotions charged through her brain: excitement at once again being part of a complex forensic investigation; satisfaction at the idea that she might be able to help; fear of plunging back into the fray.

      “Let’s go,” Adam snapped.

      Here came another emotion. She felt intensely self-conscious about climbing out of the pool. Don’t be silly! She wasn’t a giddy teenager who fretted about her body image. Blair was a grown woman, an adult. It shouldn’t matter to her what David thought.

      Her thigh muscles flexed, and she stood up in the shallow water. A veil of droplets slid off her electric-blue, one-piece swimsuit with the French-cut legs that always seemed too high. She strode through the water and hoisted herself onto the concrete ledge.

      Her first instinct was to grab the towel from Adam and cover the grotesque scarring on her leg, but she forced herself to follow her regular routine. She rubbed the moisture from her short brown hair, draped the towel over her shoulders and stood, revealing all five feet, eight inches of her body. Her angular shoulders. Her jutting hipbones. Her minimal breasts. And her right leg that was seven-eighths of an inch shorter than the left.

      She felt David’s gaze upon her and avoided looking back at him, embarrassed by what she might read in his expression. Walking slowly to minimize her limp, she went to a hook at poolside where she grabbed her full-length terry cloth robe and wrapped it around her, tying the sash tightly at her waist. Her feet slipped into a pair of rubber thongs with a bright yellow daisy at the juncture of her first and second toes.

      “Your answer?” Adam asked. “Will you attend the autopsy?”

      “What’s my role in this?” Though her pulse raced, she kept her voice level and businesslike. “Why has CCC been called in? We usually don’t get involved in ongoing crime investigations.”

      “Because of me,” David said. “About a week ago I asked CCC to take another look at my sister’s murder.”

      “Why?” she asked.

      “Eddy Adderly is dying, and it made me think. I want to know—without a shadow of doubt—that the right man was arrested and convicted, that the Fisherman will never harm another woman.”

      She could hear the frustration in his voice. When she finally looked at David, she saw a troubled man who wanted the truth and didn’t care what she looked like. He didn’t think of her in terms of her appearance. And why not?

      Her ping-pong shift in emotions was rather annoying. Only a moment ago she wanted to hide from David. Now, contrarily, she wanted him to notice her. Why shouldn’t David Crawford be interested in her as a woman?

      “Listen, Blair, I don’t have any right to ask for your help. You don’t owe me anything. But I know—”

      “How’s Jake?” Her tone was brittle.

      “He’s fine,” David said warily.

      “Still playing the field?”

      “With a vengeance.”

      She’d met David through his friend, Jake Zitti, whom she’d been dating at the time of the Fisherman murders. Jake was driving the car at the time of the accident. Jake the Snake dumped her before she was out of the hospital.

      David was a whole different story. He’d made a dozen hospital visits, bringing flowers and magazines she couldn’t read because she was out of her mind on pain medication and didn’t care what she looked like. Other issues loomed larger. Would she ever walk again? Would she regain the use of her arm? David had been kind and encouraging. In some ways, she thought, he’d treated her with the tenderness and attention he was unable to lavish upon his murdered sister.

      The memory of Danielle Crawford returned Blair’s attention to the Fisherman. Should she observe the autopsy? She turned to Adam. “I need to think about whether I want to be involved in this consultation. I’ll call you back at one o’clock. That would be, um, 1300 hours.”

      “I know you’ll make the right decision.” Adam gave a brisk nod. “Call me on the cell.”

      He pivoted and went out the door. She was left alone with David.

      “Mind if I stick around?” he asked.

      “You won’t influence my decision one way or the other,” she warned.

      “Not even a little?”

      “I don’t like looking backward. The Fisherman serial murders got real personal.” She shrugged off the remembered fear. “It’s a time in my life that I’d rather forget.”

      “I understand.”

      She