The Passion Of Sam Broussard. Maggie Price

Liz had regained her composure. She had reminded herself that showing up late for the first time in her law enforcement career was not a capital offense. What mattered in the big scheme of things was that she was back at work. Her mistake had been taking off the two weeks she’d planned to be on her honeymoon. Spending that time mostly alone hadn’t done her nerves any good—didn’t her recurring dream prove that? Once she slid back into the routine at work, she was sure her life would get back on track. Even though it wouldn’t be the married life she’d envisioned for herself.

      “Since you’ve been off, I guess you haven’t had time to review the homicide file the Colt connects to,” Broussard said before taking his first sip of coffee.

      “Actually I have.” She opened the thick envelope she’d pulled from her bag and tugged out its contents. “I took the file with me to Vegas.”

      One of his dark brows quirked. “I’d say working while on your honeymoon is beyond the call of duty.”

      Liz gave him a tight smile. “I’m dedicated.” And way thankful she’d been able to immerse herself in the details of the thirty-year-old murder and forget her own heart-wrenching troubles for a time. “So, Detective, you said you recovered the Colt in a cellar at a farmhouse on the outskirts of Shreveport?”

      “Busted a fencing operation there,” Broussard said and frowned.

      “Something wrong with your coffee?”

      “No. Sergeant Scott, have we met before?”

      Regarding Broussard from across her desk, Liz didn’t realize the side-trip her mind had taken until she found herself comparing his eyes to Dream Lover’s. The shape might be similar, but instead of a shocking blue color, Broussard’s eyes were a hard gray that reminded her of rocks hacked out of a cliff.

      And he was real, flesh and blood. A prime piece of eye-candy. She definitely would have remembered if they’d ever crossed paths.

      “I’m certain we’ve never met, Detective. Why do you ask?”

      “Because you look familiar. Very.”

      “I don’t have a clue why,” she answered.

      He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. “Have you ever been to Shreveport? Maybe attended a law enforcement conference somewhere in Louisiana?”

      “No, to both.” Liz rubbed her forehead where a headache brewed. After two weeks of having her sleep interrupted each night, she had to struggle to keep her thoughts sharp. “Can we get back to the Colt?”

      “Yeah.” Leaning forward, Broussard handed the evidence envelope across the desk. “I put a copy of my report, our firearm examiner’s and the lab’s inside.”

      Liz slid open the envelope and pulled out a clear plastic baggie containing the blue steel automatic. Wish you could talk, she thought, gazing down at the weapon that had ended a woman’s life decades ago.

      Setting the Colt aside, she slid the reports from the envelope. “Instead of my sitting here reading these, why don’t you give me the highlights?”

      “All right.” Leaning back, Broussard rested an ankle over his knee. “It’s hard to say how long the fencing operation we busted has been in business, but some of the stuff we found had been there a long time.”

      He inclined his head toward the desk. “Like the Colt. It was in the cellar in a plastic storage bin filled with guns.

      “A lab tech ran all the weapons through NCIC. We got a hit that the Colt had been reported stolen thirty years ago in Oklahoma City. When our examiner tried to do a ballistics test fire, he discovered the Colt was jammed. He disassembled it and found the trace evidence I told you about on the underside of the slide.”

      “A small piece of latex, skin tissue and blood.” The investigator in Liz couldn’t suppress a smile. “You have to figure the latex is from a surgical glove worn by someone who shot the Colt. And that he placed his hand too high on the grip, then squeezed the trigger. The slide came back, then forward so fast, he probably didn’t even know what ‘bit’ him.”

      Broussard nodded. “That shooter could be the person who killed your victim.”

      “If so, after thirty years we now have his or her DNA.” Liz lifted a hand to finger the tail of her braid. “The timing on this is amazing.”

      “How so?”

      “This office has been in existence only a few months, and I’ve been playing catch-up. It wasn’t that long ago I submitted the ballistics information on the shell in that specific homicide to the ATF’s database.”

      For the second time, Broussard regarded her over the rim of his cup. Beneath the office’s bright lights, his smoky-gray eyes looked as hard as the strong lines of his beard-stubbled jaw.

      “Then I recovered the weapon that fired that shell,” he said. “Sounds like good timing on both our parts.”

      All at once, a gut-clenching uneasiness came over Liz. Despite his laconic Southern drawl, Broussard radiated an edgy, dangerous energy through every pore. Just like Dream Lover.

      Her internal alarm system began blaring. Comparing every man she encountered to the one who’d taken over her dreams was not the most advantageous way to keep a grip on reality. Best to get Broussard out of her hair so she could immerse herself in work.

      “If you’ll walk to the property room with me, I’ll sign the Colt into evidence and give you a receipt that confirms you transferred possession to me,” she said. “Then you can get on with your vacation.”

      “Yeah.” He tapped his fingertips against one arm of his chair. “First, though, I’d like to hear the details on the homicide the Colt links to.”

      Liz eased out a breath. She felt unnerved and antsy because her personal life was in such disarray. That was no reason to shove Broussard out of her office before he was ready to go. After all, if she had recovered evidence that linked to a homicide in another jurisdiction, she would instinctively want to know about the case.

      Setting her coffee aside, she opened the file folder containing the details of the thirty-year-old murder. The reports inside smelled dry and dusty, slightly enhanced by something so subtle, Liz could only ascribe it to ancient memories.

      “The victim was Geneviève Windsor.” Liz retrieved a photo clipped inside the folder. The black-and-white picture showed a smiling, attractive young woman with long, wavy hair.

      “A looker,” Broussard commented when Liz handed him the photo. “Young.”

      “Twenty-three years old. She worked as an admin assistant to the CEO of an oil company. The day she died, she told a coworker a guy wouldn’t leave her alone. Geneviève didn’t say who he was, but the coworker assumed it was the marine Geneviève had been dating.”

      “His name?”

      “Max Hogan. That night, Geneviève called police dispatch, begging for help. When a patrol cop arrived, her apartment was on fire, and she’d been shot and had fallen off the rusted fire escape behind her building.”

      “Did Hogan shoot her?”

      “It was assumed he did, since his body was found near hers. He apparently was also on the fire escape, which collapsed under his weight. His neck was broken in the fall.”

      “What about the murder weapon? Did the detectives back then speculate why it wasn’t found at the scene?”

      Liz nodded. “There was an alley right behind the apartment building that was on the route from the downtown bus station to a homeless shelter. The detective’s theory was that Hogan dropped the Colt when the fire escape collapsed. The gun landed in the alley and was scooped up by some homeless person before the cops secured the scene.”

      “What about the marine? When his body was found, was he wearing latex gloves?”

      “No,