All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“I’m up,” I told him.

“Sorry about that,” he commiserated.

“Thanks,” I said. He unlocked the door, and I slipped inside, waiting there for either Rohl or Thompson to acknowledge me.

“Miro,” Hartley greeted me, his smile wide, his eyes glinting as he stood.

The guard moved forward fast, hand on Hartley’s shoulder, baton out, ready to make him retake his seat.

“It’s all right,” Rohl rasped, visibly fighting down her fear at having the man looming over her. Her instinctive response had to have been to run. Thompson was so startled that when he’d leapt to his feet, he’d knocked over his chair.

Craig Hartley was a scary man, even more so because of the calm so easily shattered with fierce, decisive movement.

The guard stepped back warily, not replacing the baton, holding it ready instead. Thompson didn’t retake his seat, just stood there watching Hartley as he stared at me like I was the second coming.

“I was hoping you were here somewhere,” he sighed, gesturing for me to come closer like it was a table at some restaurant somewhere and not a maximum security interrogation room at a prison for the criminally insane. “I haven’t seen you in almost two years.”

“Yeah, not since you helped with the Lambert killing,” I said from where I was.

“You were pleased with my observations,” he reminded me, squinting, shifting from one foot to the other. “I read that Christina Lambert’s killer died in prison. Was he raped first?”

I cleared my throat. “I have no idea.”

“It would have been just desserts. There’s no excuse for rape; that’s what seduction is for.”

Hartley had killed first and then mutilated his victims, turning them into what he’d described as art. It had been hard for me to see anything beyond the blood and exposed tissue, muscle, and bone. What had been clear was that Hartley had never caused his victims a moment of pain. Women went from his bed to sleep to death. It was how Norris and I had finally caught him. The recurring description we got from people was that they had seen a beautiful blond man, a gorgeous man, Prince Charming in the flesh. Once we started cross-referencing dates, times, and places, a pattern emerged, and we made daily visits to him, poking, prodding, trying to trip him up. His hubris had allowed it, so certain that neither Norris nor I was as smart as him. But he’d allowed us in the last night, given Norris permission to look around as I watched Hartley cook in the kitchen.

It was my fault; I’d turned my back on him and seen the Tahitian pearl ring with the diamonds sitting in a dish on the ledge above the kitchen sink. It was like being struck by lightning—that moment when I made the connection to why that ring looked familiar and where I’d seen it before.

I knew that particular piece of jewelry, had seen it a hundred times, and had always thought that the expensive bauble looked lovely adorning Kira Lancaster’s ring finger. It had been on prominent display in the photo we were given when she went missing. The token of affection had been an anniversary gift from her husband, and Hartley had taken it as a trophy after he slept with and killed her. He had given the ring to his sister, and it came out later that she had been over the night before. As she was doing dishes, she had slipped the ring off, placed it in the dish, and then forgotten it there. The simple act had unmasked her brother for the monster he was.

I saw the ring, and as I’d turned and looked over my shoulder, he’d rushed forward and pulled the knife from the block beside the sink. His arm went around my neck and I couldn’t pull my gun from that angle. My yell brought Norris, weapon drawn, screaming for Hartley to get his hands off me. Two things came out of that day: I saved a killer and lost a partner. Norris didn’t want to ride with a man who had no concern for his own life, and I decided that there were better ways for me to serve and protect other than being a homicide detective.

“Miro?”

I looked up at Hartley, brought from my memories by his use of my name, which I allowed, much to the chagrin of almost everyone. “Sorry.”

He was charmed, and it was evident by his smile. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I should be paying better attention.”

“I almost killed you and you saved my life anyway. I won’t ever be able to make things right between us until I get out.”

I nodded and grinned at him. “So never, then.”

He took a breath.

“Yes?”

“Never is such a long time,” he said softly, his gaze moving from me to Rohl. What was frightening was how quickly the warmth leeched out of his eyes once they were off me. “Would you mind getting up so I can speak to Marshal Jones?”