Raintree: Haunted (Raintree 2)

Hope took a deep breath and smoothed her navy-blue jacket as she approached. This morning she’d dressed professionally, as always, in trousers and a jacket like any other detective. Her pistol was housed in a holster at her waist, and her badge hung around her neck, so everyone could see it plainly.

The only concessions she made to her femininity were a touch of makeup and the two-inch heels. She wanted to make a good impression, since this was her first day on the job. From everything she’d heard, no matter what she said or did, her new partner was not going to be happy to see her.

She made her way past a couple of the officers to the doorway. One of them whispered to her, “You can’t go in there.” She stopped for a moment and watched Detective Gideon Raintree at work.

She’d studied his file extensively in preparation for this assignment. The man was not only a good cop, he had a solution rate that boggled the mind. Right now he was down on his haunches, studying the body and talking to himself in a low voice. Behind him, a lamp on an end table directed light on to his tightly-wound body in an odd way, as if he were caught in the spotlight. All the blinds were closed, so the room was almost dark. Everything was as he’d found it, she knew.

The photograph in Gideon Raintree’s file didn’t do him justice, Hope could tell that from where she stood, even though she didn’t have a clear view of his face. He was a very good-looking man with a great body—the perfectly cut suit couldn’t hide that—and the fact that he needed a haircut didn’t make him any less attractive. She’d always been a sucker for longish hair on a man, and very dark brown hair with just a touch of a wave hung a tad too long on Raintree’s neck. No matter how conservatively he dressed, he would never completely pull off a conventional look.

The suit he wore was expensive; he hadn’t bought that on a cop’s salary, not unless he’d been living on macaroni and cheese for the past year. It was dark gray, perfectly fitted, and would never dare to wrinkle. The shoes were expensive, too, made of good quality leather. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, very hip, very roguish. If not for the gun and badge, Raintree wouldn’t look at all like a cop.

She stepped into the room, against the whispered advice of the officer behind her. Raintree’s head snapped up. “I told you…” he began, but he didn’t finish his sentence. He stared at her with intense green eyes that were surprised and intelligent, and Hope got her first really good look at Gideon Raintree’s face. Cheekbones and eyelashes like that on a man really should be illegal, and the way he stared at her with those narrowed eyes…

The lightbulb in the lamp behind him exploded.

“Sorry,” he said, as if he had somehow made the lightbulb explode. “I’m not ready for the crime scene techs. Give me a few more minutes and I’ll be out of your way.” His tone was dismissive, and that rankled.

“I’m not with the Crime Scene Division,” Hope said as she took a careful step forward.

His head snapped up, and he glared at her again, not so politely this time. “Then get out.”

Hope shook her head. Normally she would offer her hand for a professional greeting when she got close enough, but Raintree was wearing white gloves, so she would be keeping her hands to herself. The firm businesslike handshake she usually offered the men she worked with would have to wait. “I’m Detective Hope Malory,” she said. “Your new partner.”

He didn’t hesitate before answering with confidence, “My partner retired five months ago, and I don’t need another one. Don’t touch anything on your way out.”

She was dismissed, and Raintree returned his attention to the body on the floor, even though he now had less light to study it by. The overhead light was dim, but she supposed it cast enough illumination over the scene. Hope had tried not to actually look at the body, but as she continued to stand her ground, she made herself take in the scene before her. It was the hair that caught her attention first. Like the woman in the hall, this victim’s hair was a mixture of pale blond and bright pink. She was dressed in well-worn blue jeans and a once-white T-shirt that advertised a local music festival. She had four gold earrings in one ear and one in the other, and wore a total of five rings—a mixture of gold and silver—on her slender fingers. All nine of them. Hope’s stomach flipped. One finger had been removed, and there was a horrible bloody wound on the top of the victim’s head, as if someone had tried to scalp her.

The same someone who had sliced her throat.

Hope took a deep breath to compose herself, then decided that wasn’t a good idea. Death wasn’t pretty, and it didn’t smell nice, either. She had, of course, seen bodies before. But they hadn’t been quite this fresh, or this mangled. It was impossible not to be affected by the sight.

Raintree sighed. “You’re not going away, are you?”

Hope shook her head, and tried to casually cover her nose and mouth with one hand.

“Fine,” Raintree said sharply. “Sherry Bishop, twenty-two years old. She was single and had no significant relationship at the time of her murder. Money was tight, so robbery is unlikely as a motive. Bishop was a drummer with a local band and also waitressed at a coffee shop downtown to make ends meet.”

“If she was in a band, maybe a stalker fixated on her,” Hope suggested.

The man who continued to squat on the floor by the body shook his head. “She was killed by a left-handed woman with long blond hair.”

“How did you come up with all that information in the past, what, twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen.” Gideon Raintree stood slowly.

He was over six feet tall—six-one, to be exact, according to his file—so Hope had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. His skin was warm, kissed by the sun, and this close, the green of his eyes was downright remarkable. The goatee and moustache gave him an almost devilish appearance, and somehow it suited him. When his eyes were narrowed and watchful, as they were now, he looked incredibly hard, as if he possessed no more heart than the murderers he pursued. Feeling more than a little like a coward, Hope dropped her gaze to his blue silk tie.

“From the angle of the wound, it appears that the attacker held the knife in her left hand,” he explained. “The coroner will confirm that, I’m sure.”

From what she’d heard, Gideon Raintree was always sure of himself. And always right. “You said her. How can you know the killer was a woman?”

Gideon nodded. “There’s a single long blond hair on the victim’s clothing. Hair that length on a man is possible, but unlikely. Again, the coroner will have to confirm.”

All right, he was observant. He had done this before. He was good. “How could you possibly know the personal details of her life?” Hope asked. Drummer. No significant other. Waitress in a coffee shop. She quickly scanned the room for clues and saw none.

“Sherry Bishop was my cousin Echo’s roommate.”

Hope nodded. She tried to remain unaffected