The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

When he entered the backroom he was looking for a jean-clad gal who was wearing a worn T-shirt and had her hair twisted on top of her head. Instead, he found a woman who could have stepped off a fashion magazine page.

Lara’s hair restored to natural blond, was down, gently curled and skimming the middle of her back. She wore heels that added several inches to her height and a sleek black dress that hugged her curves, which had been almost hidden days earlier with loose jeans and boxy T-shirt. Four slim gold bracelets dangled from her right wrist. Damn.

“Ms. Church.”

She turned and immediately her quizzical look became suspicious. “Ranger Beck. What brings you here?”

His gaze held hers. “Thought I’d come by and have a look.”

She arched a brow. “Why?”

“You interest me.” He moved close to her, knowing his height would invade the space around her. He’d half expected her to take a step back, but she held her ground in her high heels.

“I’m fairly unexciting.”

“I’d never say that.” He caught the scent of a perfume. A bit too spicy. But he liked the dress and hair. “Show me what you got.”

Gold bracelets jangled from her wrists, and he suspected the bling and the whole look had been Ms. Roberts’s doing.

“What?”

“Your pictures. Show me what you got.”

She glanced past him, half hoping there’d be someone else to rescue her, but an empty studio was the reason he’d come early. He’d wanted her to himself. “Sure.”

Those high heels gave her legs a long, lean look that he liked. They also caused her hips to sway just a bit back and forth when she walked. Perfume aside, he gave Ms. Roberts big points for the new Ms. Church.

Lara stopped at the first black-and-white photograph. It was an interior shot of an old warehouse, and like the pictures he’d seen in the darkroom these images had sharp detail, high contrast, and frayed edges that added a moodiness to the piece. “This was taken in the Washington, D.C., area. This is a warehouse that overlooks the Potomac. I was able to get to the top floor, where the body was found, and take this image.”

The chalk outline of the body remained, as did a couple of discarded plastic evidence bags. A full moon shone through a large window and caught the lingering flecks of dust dancing in the air. He spotted holes in the ground. “I remember that case. The killer thought his victims were witches. He staked their bodies to the floor.”

“I’m surprised you’d know. Virginia is a couple of thousand miles away.”

“I remember the worst cases.” Like Seattle.

She didn’t speak for a moment and then moved to another scene. This one, she explained, had been taken in Boston. He didn’t know the section of town, but it didn’t take a local to recognize twilight in a back alley.

He traced the rim of his hat with his fingertip. “You’ve been to some dangerous places. Do you always go alone?”

“Sometimes. I had a friend who worked with me at the art store go with me to this site. Even I know when to take precautions.”

Even when she was dressed down, no man would miss the fact that Lara Church was a beautiful woman with a stunning figure. He hated the idea of her going to any of these murder scenes alone or with some work acquaintance. “Not smart, Ms. Church. Not smart at all.”

Her smile looked brittle. “I suppose you’ve got your opinions and I’ve got mine.”

Tension rippled through his muscles. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked. “How’d you come across your first murder scene?”

She shifted her stance, uncomfortable with the heels or the question. “By accident. I was in a small town in Utah, and there’d been a brawl. A man was killed. The yellow tape caught my eye and I stopped. Before I realized it, I snapped a picture with my cell phone camera. That night in the motel I was fascinated by the image. It had secrets to tell.”

He leaned closer. “The scene needed to talk to you.”

“Yeah.” Fire flashed in her eyes. “Sounds crazy. I know that. But after Seattle I didn’t care so much about people’s opinions.”

“Why?”

“After touching death, life’s smaller details can be petty.”

That he did understand. “So just like that you became a photographer.”

“More like a waitress who worked the odd shifts, so I could shoot when the light was right. I moved around, studied with different people.”

“Where’d you get the old camera?”

“An auction in Chicago. I didn’t know what to do with it and had to travel to a photo shop in Pennsylvania to get a photographer to show me how it worked.”

“And now you have a show, and you’re teaching.”

“That’s right.”

He leaned into a photo taken on a sandy bank by a river. “Want to know what I think?”

Her gaze trailed his. “I suspect you’ll tell me either way.”

“I think your memories are stowed away in a dark, shadowy corner of your mind.”

She shook her head. “You think too much.”

“That’s what I’m paid to do, ma’am.” He leaned in, nudging her personal space. “Do you remember the coin in your hand?”

Her face paled and without realizing she curled the fingers of her right hand into a fist. “I don’t remember it. Raines told me about it. A penny.”

He studied her gaze searching for hints of a lie. He was good at reading body language, and all he was reading off her now was fear and nerves. “What are you afraid of?”

A delicate chin lifted. “I’m not afraid.”

“You are.” Seeing her fear fueled his protective instincts.

She gestured toward the wall of photos. “The show. It has my nerves on end. I’m not used to so much attention.”

“This is your first time out of hiding since Seattle?”

“Yes.” Sorrow lurked behind the word, but she smiled as if forcibly embracing joy. “But it had to happen. I can’t live a gypsy’s life forever.”

“Have you ever considered going public about what happened in Seattle?”

She stiffened and in a half second he glimpsed fear in her eyes. “No.”

“If the killer is out there, he can find you.”

“I don’t need to paint a bull’s-eye on my head.”

“Lara!” Cassidy called to Ms. Church from across the room. She had two folks in tow. One was a spindly woman who wore all black and had a short, dark bob and the other was a short man with tight jeans and a crisp white shirt. “I have two people I’d adore for you to meet.”

Beck straightened, frustration clawing at him. Given more time, he thought he might have reached her. Now, Ms. Roberts would sweep her away into the glitter of the evening.

Lara’s smile was bright, but he imagined her visibly bracing. “If you will excuse me, Ranger Beck.”

“Looks like you’re headed to a firing squad.”

Her smile softened. “Close. Art critics.”

He didn’t need more time with her, but he wanted it. He had no business wanting her. The case always took priority. He was a Texas Ranger. But for the first time, he almost resented the silver star’s weight. “Been a pleasure, Ms. Church.”

Without responding, she moved across the room toward the art critics.

She extended her hand, demonstrating a poise that reflected the life she’d lived before the attack.

Cassidy moved toward him, a look of irritation flashing in her green eyes. “You were nice to Lara, I trust.”

“No reason not to be.” He had the sense they were burning time. As much as he wanted to play nice, he knew in his gut he didn’t have the luxury.

Lara had trouble concentrating as she talked to Ms. Vera Jones, a writer for the Austin Chronicle. Ms. Jones was expounding on her theories of modern photography.

She’d not seen Beck in a half hour, but she sensed his presence and at times his gaze burrowing into her back. Tonight he’d set her off balance.

When she’d seen him, she’d expected him to be pissed off. She’d expected him to be frustrated. Instead, he’d been almost charming. He was a chameleon, able to adapt, be what the situation dictated. And that made him dangerous.

“Why does such a lovely young woman choose such a dark subject?” Vera’s question pulled Lara’s attention back to the slim woman standing in front of her.

“Darkness brings conflict and conflict is interesting.” She swirled the untouched glass of wine in her hand.

“Frankly, you look like the flowers and butterflies kind of photographer.”

Lara raised her wineglass to her lips and pretended to drink. “I get that a lot.”

Vera leaned in closer to Lara, as if they were coconspirators. “What drives your work? This attraction to death doesn’t come from a place of butterflies and puppies.”

Anxiety clutched Lara’s stomach. “No.”

Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Then where? What drives your art?”

Later she’d wonder over and over what prompted her candid answer. Beck’s presence. Guilt. Need. Anger. She’d never peg what prompted her to say, “I was attacked seven years ago. I survived, but it left its mark.”

Vera’s expression softened, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. “What happened?”

“I was nearly strangled to death. Several women before me were killed by this man, but I survived.” She’d never spoken the words out loud, and there was a freedom that came with the truth.”

“Here in Austin?”

“No. Seattle. Seven years ago.”

Vera’s eyes gleamed. “I remember reading about the case. What did they call him? Ah, the Seattle Strangler.”

She nodded, her body now numb. “Yes.”

“That case got national attention.”

“It did.”

“I never heard your name mentioned.”

“I was the seventh victim, the one that survived. The police never released my name.”

Vera sipped her wine and Lara could almost hear gears turning in her brain. “There was a woman strangled in Austin recently.”