Lethal Lies Page 3

  “Yeah. I shifted right when I should’ve gone left. Loretta’s partner was training me.” She looked out the window, her body one tense line. “I’m not so good at the physical stuff.”

  “Really?” he barked out before he could stop himself, his gut dropping. “I’ve heard many an excuse and lie, but that’s a new one. Most battered women go with the ‘I fell down the stairs’ explanation.” He winced. That hadn’t been nice. “Sorry.”

  Instead of getting angry or cowering away, Anya seemed to focus on him. “Wow. That was a serious leap in logic, buddy.”

  He paused.

  Her chin lowered. “You sound as if you have experience in that area.”

  Now he stiffened. “What are you? A shrink?” he muttered.

  “Well, kind of.”

  He turned her way. “Do you practice? With patients?” If anything, she became more intriguing every time she talked.

  “No. I’m a professor of criminal psychology at Ocean City College. So I could’ve been a shrink.”

  The stunning redhead was a professor? “Tell me the truth about the bruises.”

  Her shoulders settled and her arms stopped shaking. “Loretta’s partner was teaching me some self-defense moves, and I honestly moved the wrong way. He pulled the punch, but . . .”

  But delicate skin like hers bruised easily. It sounded like she was telling the truth, but he knew from experience how often victims lied. “Right.”

  She blinked. “What’s your deal? You have definite issues, don’t you?”

  His chest hurt in an old ache. He sighed and took another turn, correcting when the truck fishtailed again on the black ice. “My mom was killed by an abusive boyfriend when I was a kid. She was addicted to drugs, and we never stayed in one place long, but she always managed to find the biggest dickheads in the world to fall for. The last one finally killed her.” His tone had remained low and matter-of-fact, even as pain exploded in his solar plexus.

  “I’m sorry,” Anya whispered, her eyes glassy. “That’s terrible.”

  His phone rang.

  She stiffened, her hands shaking more. God, she really was going to shoot him.

  He gingerly pulled out the phone to read a text. His entire body tightened. “My brothers have a lead on your sister. I have to go.”

  “What’s the lead?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

  “I don’t know. They just said to suit up.” He took another turn.

  “Brothers?”

  “Lost Bastards Investigative Services is owned by the three of us—Ryker, Denver, and me. We’re brothers.” They were all he had in the world, and if something happened to either one of them, his heart would be cut out. So he understood her need to find her sister. He really did. Everything inside him wanted to gather her close and provide shelter.

  Her gaze turned to the deserted snowy road. “I’m going with you.”

  Hell, no. “I can’t have you with me if I find the guy.” Not only would she be in the way, he didn’t want her to see Loretta if the serial killer had finished with her. The guy had a pattern, and it wasn’t pretty. Considering Loretta was an FBI agent, the killer would probably want to make a statement. A nasty one.

  “My sister might need me.” Her voice had trembled on those words. “If you’re telling the truth. If not, then I’m shooting you.”

  His chest ached. He’d only met Special Agent Loretta Jackson a couple of times, but he liked her. They’d collaborated on the serial killer case, and Loretta’s sharp intelligence had impressed the heck out of him. In fact, she’d been whole and strong—the complete opposite of his mother. And yet . . . she’d been taken by a killer. The unfairness of that fact nearly made him choke. “I respect your sister and know she’d want me to keep you safe. Let’s do this my way.”

  Anya set her other hand on the gun. “I don’t think so.”

  Even from across the cab, he could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. If she didn’t calm herself, she was about to go into a panic attack. “You need to calm down, Anya.”

  “I’m calm.” Her voice had come out an octave higher than it had earlier.

  He had to get through to her somehow and get her to concentrate on something other than the gun and him. “When I talked to your sister the other day, she implied you two had just recently reconnected.”

  “Yeah. We’ve always stayed in touch but not as much as I wish we had. Loretta’s mom was, well, what my dad fondly called a serial wife.” Anya squinted out into the storm.

  Heath frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “She married a lot of men, including my dad. Loretta was ten when they got married and had me, and she was fifteen when they split.” Anya’s tone lowered. “We knew of each other but didn’t really bond until earlier this year.” Her hand started shaking again. “We have to find her, Heath. She has to be all right.”

  So she did believe him. Imaginary weights slammed onto his shoulders. “The FBI won’t stop looking, either. She’s one of theirs.” How had the Copper Killer gotten an FBI agent?

  “The FBI should’ve told me.” Tears choked her voice.

  “Agreed.” Heath would use every skill he had to find her still alive. First, he had to get Anya safely back to the FBI so he could get to work. “Give me the gun.”

  “No.”

  All right. Enough was enough. He pulled over next to a snowbank at the side of the road and put the vehicle into neutral. Then he turned toward her, facing the barrel of his own gun and keeping calm like always. “Last chance, Anya.”

  A frown marred her smooth forehead. “I have the gun.”

  Yeah, but he had reflexes that were definitely beyond the norm. He blew out air. Man, she was pretty. Her eyes were the color of a misty forest and nearly glowed against her pale skin. Totally inappropriate for the moment, but his interest in her grew. “Listen. If I get the gun from you, it’s because I have unreal training, okay? It has nothing to do with strength or you. You are not weak, and you are not a victim.”

  She blinked. “I already told you that I’m not a victim. You’re across the truck from me, so you might want to watch your ego. I’m keeping the gun.”

  “Right. Just say you heard my words, okay?” God, he didn’t want to do this.

  She rolled her eyes. “All right, tough guy. I heard your words.”

  He lifted his left hand and twisted, smoothly taking the gun with his right.

  Her mouth gaped. Even in the cloudy day, the highlights from her dark red hair glinted with life.

  He tucked the gun into his waistband at the back. “Thanks for not shooting me.”

  “You moved impossibly fast.”

  “Yeah.” That was a minefield he wasn’t entering with her. “I’m sorry I had to take the gun.” He set the truck into drive and moved back onto the icy road.

  “You apologize a lot,” she murmured, turning to face the front window. Her shoulders slumped.

  He blinked and warmth bloomed in his chest even though she was shrinking his head. “My brothers wouldn’t believe you about that.” They thought he was one stubborn bastard.

  “Bad guys don’t apologize. You must be okay.” She sounded thoughtful and a little sad. Scared.

  She was also wrong. “I’m not a good guy. Trust me.”

  “Right.” She shoved that glorious red hair away from her face. “Loretta thought you were good at your job, and that means something.”

  “I’ll do my best to find her, and I promise I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

  She rubbed her hands down her jeans. “Good enough. Check in the second you have news.”

  “I will.” He slowed the truck around a chunk of ice in the road. “You do the same.”

  “Sure.”

  That didn’t sound like the truth. Man, she really didn’t trust him. Oddly, all of a sudden he wanted to prove her wrong. Yet his instincts bellowed for him to get the green-eyed beauty somewhere safe and definitely away from him. Her skin tempted him to explore, and her
mouth looked delicious. He couldn’t be distracted like this—especially when he had a job to do.

  Her apartment came into view. The front entrance was empty, but he’d seen an FBI agent inside the lobby and out of the storm. “Hey. Do me a favor and don’t let the FBI know about the fake marshals, would you? That’s a private case, and we really need the FBI to concentrate on your sister and not lose traction by following irrelevant leads.”

  She studied him. “I’ll think about it.”

  That’s all he could ask her to do. “Let the FBI keep you safe.” As if they could.

  She nodded. “Where are your offices located?”

  “They were in Cisco, Wyoming, but we’ve closed those down. We’re working on relocating to the Pacific Northwest,” he said easily. They hadn’t found a place as of yet.

  Her face was still too pale. “Promise you’ll call if you find out anything. And if you’re lying about Loretta . . .”

  “I wish I were. But I’ll find her.” He studied Anya. Delicate bone structure, bruised skin, terror-filled eyes. After she exited the truck, snow dropped onto her flaming hair, and with the gray building behind her, she was all light and color. “I promise.”

  She shut the door and turned to run into the building.

  He waited until she’d reached the agent inside, looked around the quiet area to make sure nobody had followed them, and then took off.

  Leaving her didn’t feel right.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Anya settled back in her seat as the too-silent female agent drove her through Snowville toward the FBI offices. The woman had barely confirmed that Loretta had been kidnapped. For any more information, Anya needed to speak to a superior.

  Kidnapped. Anya leaned her head against the window, not minding the chill. Where was Loretta? Was she hurt? Scared? Still alive?

  Closing her eyes, Anya said yet another prayer. Heath’s cece filled her mind. Strong lines, intelligent eyes, determined jaw, sculpted lips.

  What would those lips feel like? With that thought, she flashed back to almost five months ago, when her life had started to unravel.

  “Leave me the hell alone, Carl,” she snapped, struggling with both the lock on her apartment door and her luggage. Her laptop case fell off her biggest suitcase, landing with a thunk on the plush carpet of the long hallway. How was her taste in men so terrible when she’d been raised by a single father who had been an amazing person? “Damn it.”

  Carl sighed and stepped away from her. “We have to talk about this.”

  Talk about this? She whirled on him. “You’re kidding me. You’re actually kidding with me right this second.”

  His sizzling blue eyes dimmed. “I’m sorry. You have to know how sorry I am.”

  “I don’t care.” She turned and unlocked her door, heat and hurt filling her chest. They’d dated for nearly six months before they’d won a grant to study abnormal psychology at an institution in southern Washington and had taken sabbaticals from Ocean City College in western Washington, where they both taught. It had seemed like such an adventure. “We’re through.”

  “Come on.” He shook his head. “It was one mistake.”

  “Right.” They’d been on a research sabbatical for two months, with ten to go. She’d do her own research without his help. She struggled to shove her suitcases inside. Was it only the night before that she’d found him in bed with his research assistant? The idiot should’ve never given her the key to his temporary apartment. The bastard must’ve broken speed limits to get here so quickly.

  He cleared his throat and reached for her laptop bag.

  “Don’t,” she hissed, shoving his hand away and grabbing it herself.

  He sighed. “You are so dramatic. Listen. We’ve been dating for months and there has to be a way to salvage this.”

  She bit her lip. “You should worry more about your career, considering you just slept with a nineteen-year-old student. Your student. We’re done.” Slamming the door in his face, she leaned against it. Tears prickled in her eyes. “Jerk,” she whispered.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. We’re not done,” he said through the door.

  The man was crazy. Tripping over her suitcase, she moved through her front hall to her wide kitchen with its cheerful whitewashed cupboards and granite countertops. Dust and a sense of emptiness surrounded her. God, she had to have some wine somewhere. She dug through the cupboards and drew out a bottle of Shiraz. Perfect. Opening it took a second, pouring a few more, and by then, she decided to get over Carl the asshat and now.

  She took a deep gulp. Spice and warmth exploded in her stomach.

  Her living room stretched before her, the leather furniture and bright pillows welcoming her home to her bachelorette pad. She’d always be alone. Her heart ached. A picture taken of her with her father around her seventeenth birthday caught her eye. He’d received a commendation for stopping a robbery and stood so proudly next to her in his police uniform, his strong arm over her shoulder, his green eyes a perfect match for hers. “I am never going to find a man like you,” she murmured, letting the room blur for a moment.

  What she wouldn’t give to be able to call him right now. Of course, if he were still alive, he’d drive to her small Washington coastal town and beat the shit out of Carl. The thought made her smile.

  She eyed the round table in the wide nook, piled high with magazines and mail. Mrs. Polansky from next door had done a good job of sorting it all into piles.

  With another gulp, Anya strode toward the table and sat. With ten months still to go on her research project, she would give anything to be able to return to teaching the next day. To get on with her life without Carl. She angrily shoved away tears.

  She took the mail and organized it further, into garbage, somewhat interesting stuff, and bills she’d already paid online.

  Four envelopes—the regular white kind—caught her eye. Her name and address were scrawled in strong handwriting across them. No return address.

  She frowned and pushed the wineglass away. Then she opened the top letter.

  A picture fell out.

  Squinting, she lifted the snapshot to the light. A girl of about eighteen looked into the camera. Tears filled her pretty blue eyes, and her long red hair was splayed over her shoulders. What in the world? Chills clacked down Anya’s arms.

  She reached for the letter to unfold and read it. The scent of lavender filtered around her.

  Dear Anya,

  This girl tried to be you, to make us, and she failed. Nobody can be you. I’m afraid she’ll have to be punished.

  XO

  Me

  Anya’s stomach roiled. “Punished”? Was this some kind of sick joke? She grabbed another envelope and ripped it open. Another photograph spilled out. This one was of another redhead, who appeared to be in her midtwenties with brown eyes. Tears glimmered on her face, too.

  Dear Anya,

  Did you like my last present? I haven’t heard from you, but that’s okay. We’ll have plenty to talk about soon. This girl also tried to be you . . . she tried so hard. But she failed as well. Her death is deserved. They’re calling me the Copper Killer now. How cute is that? Until we meet in person, my love.

  XO

  Me

  The psychologist in Anya roared to the forefront. Either this was an incredibly sick joke or something horrible was going on. Her hand shook as she reached for the third envelope. She bit back a scream when the picture fell out.

  A totally different redhead looked blindly at the camera, her eyes dead, her mangled neck bruised.

  Anya cried out as she stood and shoved away from the table, falling against the edge of the counter. Her hands shook. That quickly, her gaze caught on the stack of newspapers next to the mail. The top headline read: COPPER KILLER TAKES ANOTHER LIFE.

  Oh God. She backed out of the kitchen, her hands trembling, her breath panting. What was happening? She looked wildly around the quiet apartment. Help. She needed help. So she turned
and ran for the room she used as an office, flipped through her address book, and quickly dialed.

  “Special Agent Jackson,” her half sister answered with authority.

  “Loretta?” Anya breathed, tears sliding down her face. Her entire body had gone cold. “Loretta?”

  “Yes? Anya?”

  Anya paused. They didn’t speak as much as they should and only exchanged e-mails or Christmas cards once in a while. Yet Loretta worked for the FBI. “Yeah. It’s me.” She should’ve probably called the police.

  “Oh.” Loretta was quiet for a moment. “Are you all right? You sound funny.”

  Anya bit her lip, her mind spinning. “I don’t think so. I mean, no. I think I need help.”

  The car slid in the snow, and Anya came back to the present with a gasp. Her head pounded.

  It was her fault. Loretta hadn’t even been working the Copper Killer case until Anya had asked for help, and now she was in the hands of a brutal psychopath.

  Heath shrugged off unease at leaving Anya with the FBI and picked up speed, quickly dialing the only other number programed into his phone.

  “Where are you?” Ryker, his brother, snapped.

  “Snowville,” Heath said. “Long story. For now, what do you have?”

  “Big news. Loretta wasn’t taken from her temporary quarters in Snowville. She was on her own in a small town called Gold City in the northwest corner of Idaho. Not too far from where you are, though. Probably there to draw out the killer.”

  Heath bit back a snarl. “The FBI kept that a secret.”

  “Actually, they think she was taken from the decoy position in Snowville,” Ryker said. “But they’ll figure it out shortly, I’m sure.”

  Heath slowed down. “Do I need to get back to the airport?”

  “No. It’d be faster for you to drive there.” The sound of typing came over the line. “We caught a picture of Agent Jackson in Gold City the day she was taken, so she might still be in Idaho.”

  Almost two days ago. Heath punched the gas and headed north. “What was she doing there?”

  “If you ask me, she was setting herself up as bait without backup,” Ryker said evenly, still typing.