The Hangman (The Forgotten Files 3)

He rose up on his elbows and pushed back her hair from her face. “You okay?”

“More than okay.”

“You tensed again.”

She’d shared her body, but feelings were a whole different matter.

“You can talk to me.”

She tried to wriggle free and thought he might hold her too close, but he rolled on his side and let her put distance between them. She didn’t go as far this time, choosing to stay on her back, inches from him.

He traced circles around the delicate lines of a scroll tattoo inked above her hip bone. “When did you get this?”

She smiled. “Spring break. Junior year of college. Made sense at the time.”

“Sexy.” His fingers moved over her flat belly to a scar by her left breast. “What happened?”

“Part of my adventures in Virginia Beach with Benny.”

“You can talk to me about it.”

Instead of answering, she rolled to her side and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She searched the floor for her shirt. Now that the desire had burned itself out, her skin cooled and she was feeling too exposed. When she moved to stand, he grabbed her wrist. Not an unbreakable hold, but firm enough to let her know he wanted her to stay. Because she had a choice, she stayed.

“You’re always running,” he said. “I can feel your heart racing.”

A sigh leaked over her lips. “Cindy says I’ve been on the move since I was a small kid.”

“Where are you running to now?”

“To get my shirt. I’m cold.”

“Not away from the question?”

“That, too.”

He released his grip, shifted his weight under the covers, and held up the blanket for her.

Novak didn’t push, but waited. Always steady, coaxing.

She dropped the shirt and slid under the covers beside him. He touched his body close to her, banding his arm around her waist. His erection hardened and pressed against her buttocks.

She chuckled. “So soon?”

“The tattoo did it for me.”

He pushed against her ass, and his hand slid, trying to coax her forward a fraction so he could enter. She moved for him, opening easily and surrendering to the pleasure. After a while, they collapsed against each other, and she nestled close to him. For the first time in a long time, she drifted off peacefully to sleep.

When her cell phone rang, Julia jolted awake. She was aware of two things. The sun had not risen, and she wasn’t alone in her bed. She glanced over at Novak, who lay on his back, his hands draped over his eyes.

“Not my ringtone,” he said.

Novak. In her bed. Shit. She scrambled out of bed and found her cell in the pocket of her pants. She fished it out. Dakota Sharp. Great.

She cleared her throat. “Vargas.”

“Vacation ends as of Monday,” he said.

She searched the room for her digital clock and read the display. 6:01. “This could have waited until later, but Sharp works all the time.”

“Didn’t want you filling up your dance card for Monday.”

“Sure. Fine.”

“Any word on the Hangman murders?”

“Not yet. But there are a couple of new leads.”

“Any connections to the Ortega case?” Sharp asked.

“Several. Hopefully I’ll have plenty to share by Monday.”

“Right.”

Novak rose up out of bed and moved toward her. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her ass.

She inhaled and tried to wiggle away, but he held her tight.

“If you don’t have hard leads on the Hangman case by Monday, turn the case over to Novak. He’s a solid detective.”

She cleared her throat. “Solid, understood.”

When she hung up, Novak took the phone from her hand and tossed it on the pile of clothes on the floor. “Duty calls?”

She tipped her head back so her hair fell away from her face. “Sharp reminding me I’m back on the job as of Monday. Time is running out for me and this case.”

Novak kissed the hollow of her neck before his lips moved to the exposed side of her left breast. “You have some time to spare, don’t you?”

She relaxed into his touch, knowing none of this was smart. Hard to climb out if she fell in too deep. “Maybe a little.”

“Good. Now we can try even slower.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Saturday, November 4, 8:30 a.m.

Andrews received an early-morning call from Dr. Kincaid. She had Jim Vargas’s autopsy files in her office, was working today, and would be on hand to answer questions. He told her he’d see her in two hours. He pushed away from his computer screen, showered, and dressed and was on the road in fifteen minutes.

He’d not formally met Dr. Addison Kincaid but was aware of research she was privately doing on a cold case that was of great interest to him. Her work was the reason he’d pitched the idea of a cold case team to Shield Security’s founder, Joshua Shield, who had been more than willing to chase killers who’d gotten away with murder. He hoped Dr. Kincaid would come to value the work he was doing now and trust him with her case before he had to force the issue soon.

When he arrived at her office, he found her sitting at her desk, her head bowed over graphic images of a body midautopsy. He cleared his throat, and she looked up, dark-rimmed glasses accentuating green eyes.

“Garrett Andrews,” he said.

She rose and came around her desk. “I didn’t hear you. I get lost in thought.”

And he moved quietly. He shook her hand, knowing the scars on his palm grated her smooth skin. “Thank you for getting the files so quickly, Dr. Kincaid.”

“Certainly.” She adjusted glasses that framed her face nicely. “I had a chance to look at the autopsy report.”

“Any conclusions?”

She turned toward the desk, pulled a file from a neat stack at the corner, and crossed to a small conference table. Extending her hand, she invited him to sit. As she moved past him, a subtle perfume drifted around him.

She opened her file to an explicit picture of Detective Jim Vargas lying on the autopsy table. His face was intact, his eyes closed, his mouth agape. However, in the center of his chest

was a bullet wound.

“When we see close-range shots to the head or in the mouth, it’s often an indication of suicide, not homicide,” she said.

“You’ve seen gunshots to the chest in a suicide?”

“Not as often, but yes.”

“Were there scratches or bruising to suggest any kind of struggle?”

“No. I looked at all the pictures and read the medical examiner’s notes. No other signs of fresh injuries, though X-rays detected several broken bones that had healed and an old cut that had been sewn up. Crime-scene photos suggest he was sitting in a chair that was at his kitchen table.”

“Gunpowder residue on his hands?”

“Yes. There was gunpowder residue on his hands and chest, which is consistent with him holding the gun close to his chest. The investigators theorized that he placed the gun’s muzzle to his chest using both hands and fired. He was wearing a T-shirt at the time of the shooting.”

“Really?”

She flipped a page to another picture that showed a close-up of the wound. “Although he was wearing a T-shirt, there is still gunpowder stippling in the entrance wound as well as on the garment.”

“Again, consistent with suicide?” Andrews asked.

“It proves that the gun barrel was less than a quarter inch from his body.”

“Not pressed against his skin?”

“That’s correct. Again, consistent in a suicide.”

“Angle of the shot?”

“Slightly downward. The bullet traveled through the chest, including the heart, exiting the body. Death was immediate.”

“Suicides are slightly upward, so the bullet misses the rib cage, hits the heart and possibly the aorta, correct?”

“Yes, typically.” She showed him another image featuring Vargas’s body turned on his side so that the medical examiner could document the exit wound. “The bullet was a nine-millimeter jacketed hollow point, a nasty one. It’s meant to expand upon impact to decrease penetration and disrupt more tissue. The medical examiner noted the forensic team dug the slug out of the kitchen wall.”

“No signs of a struggle.”

“None was found by the patrol officers,” she said.