Protecting the Pregnant Witness

“Is that what you want? You want me to marry you?” He reached inside the car and Josie instinctively pulled her hands from the wheel and hugged her arms around her belly. The movement wasn’t lost on Rafe. She could see it in his eyes—she was shielding her baby from him. “You know what kind of childhood I had. How I feel about…having kids.”

“Oh, I know.”

At last, he drew his hand away. “Are you giving the baby up? Keeping it?”

“I’m keeping Junior.” She’d never considered any other option. “But don’t worry. I absolve you of all responsibility. I’ll sign papers if you want. I don’t want anything from you. Just think of this baby as all mine. I do.”

HE STOOD IN the shadows, waiting nearly thirty minutes for the cop sitting in his truck to quit cursing and banging his steering wheel, and then staring out into the darkness as though he might be holding back tears. Whatever Josie Nichols had said to him had clearly upset him.

Only after the black-suited cop had started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, still fighting whatever the bad news had been, did he emerge from behind the Dumpster and walk to the vehicle he’d parked two blocks down the street. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, squirted it with a splash of breath spray and held the minty scent over his nose, trying to dispel the acrid stench from his hiding place that lingered in his nostrils.

Officer Mood Swing had thwarted his plan to make quick work of the situation that had developed. But his ongoing research and his patience in the shadows had paid off in other invaluable ways. He’d quickly learned Josie Nichols’s nighttime routine. The fat uncle would be of no consequence—he’d taken the whiskey bottle upstairs to his apartment after closing the bar. But the big-brother cop could be as problematic as the extra security around the hospital where Miss Nichols spent most of her days.

He pressed the remote on his key chain as he approached his vehicle, pocketed the handkerchief as he found fresher air to breathe, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. It was a nasty habit, one he indulged only when he needed to calm himself, when he needed to think. And he definitely needed to think now.

KCPD was closing in on him. Every time he wrapped up a loose end, another thread in his plan unraveled. They’d kept him from knowing the satisfaction of squeezing the life from his last two victims. And he was hungry for revenge now. Aching with the blood-pumping need to destroy the last two women who had denied him what was rightfully his.

He could see their faces now, telling him no, apologizing. As if I’m sorry made everything all right. His heart raced in his chest and his breathing went shallow as he remembered the humiliation. He’d been punished for his failures, punished his whole life for being different, for not being rich enough or powerful enough to earn his place in their world.

He stumbled over the curb and caught himself on the hood of the van. Stupid, stupid boy!

“Shut up,” he muttered, remembering the fists and the torture, remembering how he’d suffered all because a woman had denied him what should have been his. “Shut up!”

Hearing his own voice echoing off the brick and stone buildings surrounding him brought him to his senses. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, letting the nicotine sink into his lungs and blood, finding the calm he needed before grinding it out in the street beneath his foot.

Remembering his training, remembering to never leave one trace of DNA, one clue to connect him to any one place or crime, he carefully picked up the squished butt and climbed into the van. After disposing of the butt in the ashtray with the other two cigarettes he’d smoked, he picked up the digital camera from the seat beside him and turned it on to scroll through the pictures of his victims. It was a trip down memory lane that made him smile.

He’d paid far too dearly for not handling those four women as a younger man. But now Valeska Gallagher was dead. He clicked to a new picture. Gretchen Cosgrove was dead. And another. Audrey Kline and Charlotte Mayweather would be dead as soon as he could devise the right plan.

He just needed time.

Patience.

And a plan.

A self-important gang leader had ignored his instructions and botched his efforts to kill Audrey. Kyle Austin’s interference had kept him from killing Charlotte. And now both men were dead.

There was only one thing standing in the way of his success now. Another woman.

Finding her name in the prison visitors’ log when the guards had rushed in to help Kyle Austin had been easy enough. Sister of a druggie, and anyone with an arrest record was easy to trace. He’d found Patrick Nichols’s information online, and saw that, ironically, the inconsequential inmate was the son of a slain cop. All the newspaper stories about Aaron Nichols’s heroic death had led him straight to the Shamrock Bar. And Josie.

He scrolled ahead to the last few pictures on his screen. Her long ponytail would give him something to hold onto if he decided to kill her with his hands. But then he was equally skilled with poisons and rifles. And he hadn’t forgotten the bomb-making skills his father had taught him.

Josie Nichols wasn’t his usual victim. She wasn’t rich and she had no family, of influence or not, to speak of.

But she’d seen his face.

Even with his disguise, she’d been too close. He’d read the suspicion in her eyes. He’d seen the imprint of a memory being made.

Oh, how his fingers itched to wipe that look from her eyes.

It was only a matter of time before KCPD linked him to Kyle Austin’s murder this afternoon—only a matter of time before Miss Nichols gave her description and some lucky cop spotted him. For years he’d been faceless. But now Josephine Nichols could look at him in a lineup or a courtroom and say, That’s the man I saw. He’s your killer. And then he’d be put in prison. Reunited with his father and uncles who’d left him for dead in a hospital emergency room long ago.

Josie Nichols could give him a face. She could take his freedom away. She could stop him before his retribution was complete.

And no woman could ever be allowed to have that kind of power over him again.

One way or another, Josie Nichols had to die.

Chapter Three

“I don’t recognize any of the men in these pictures,” Josie confessed, feeling as frustrated as the red-haired detective pacing the length of the interview room where he had her going through book after book of mug shot photos. “If one of these men is your killer, then maybe my memory’s not as good as I thought.”

But Spencer Montgomery didn’t like that answer. He pulled the one she’d just closed back off the stack and opened it in front of her. “Are you sure? Look again.”

“No.” She shoved the book away, not sure if she wanted to throw it at Detective Montgomery or beg his dark-haired partner, Nick Fensom, who was sitting calmly at the far end of the conference table to say something. Ultimately, she took a deep breath, rubbed her tummy beneath the edge of the table to soothe the distress that was agitating both her stomach and the baby, and defended herself in a rational tone. “None of these men are the guy I saw wiping the blood off his hands just before Kyle Austin died. Those eyes? I’ll never forget them. He’s not here.”

She thought she was coming in this morning to sign her statement about the events she’d seen Friday after visiting with Patrick. She had no idea these two detectives wanted to grill her up one side and down the other because they believed she’d come face-to-face with someone they’d dubbed The Rich Girl Killer.

She wanted to remind them that she’d come here of her own volition, trying to be the good citizen her father had taught her to be, despite the suspicions they’d initially thrown her way after Kyle Austin’s death. She also wanted to remind them that she was already late for her shift at the Truman Medical Center where she was finishing up her nurse’s training. And although her supervisor was married to a forensic scientist who worked for the police department, and said she understood such things, Josie didn’t want any marks—like a lack of punctuality—to show up on her record.

Finally, the silent detective at the far end of the table spoke up. “Maybe he’s never been arrested and he’s not in the KCPD or State Patrol database. Do you want to try the FBI database?”

Josie’s gaze shot to the clock on the wall. “How many pictures is that?”

Detective Fensom offered her a wry smile. “Too many to look at today, ma’am. But it might be worth forwarding your description to the Kansas City Bureau office to see if they pull any pix for you to look at on a later date.”

Josie grabbed her backpack from the chair beside her. “So I can go?”

“One last thing.” Detective Montgomery flipped through the papers in his folder and pulled out a copy of an enlarged image of a high-school yearbook page. He slapped it on the table in front of her and pointed to the picture of a boy with wiry hair, an acne-scarred chin and thick glasses. “Is that him?”

Leaning in, Josie studied the picture more closely and compared it to the man with the toupee she’d seen Friday. “Well, the man I saw looked fifteen years older—maybe because his hairline was receding, almost like arrow points. The cheekbones were different, the jawline more pronounced.” She squinted, focusing in on the glasses he wore. The lenses distorted their size, but, “The eyes are the same.” Josie leaned back, hugging her bag over her belly. There was something cold, something disconnected and eerily familiar in those pale eyes. She looked up at the detectives. “Is this him?”

“At least we’re right about our Donny Kemp theory,” Montgomery said to Fensom. Then he looked down to answer her. “This is what our suspect looked like when he was in high school. We believe he’s had plastic surgery and has changed his identity more than once in the ten years since. If we can link Donny Kemp to whoever he is now—”

“The man I saw.”

“—then we won’t be chasing a shadow anymore. We could finally bring this guy in.”

She glanced over at the computer composite a police artist had pieced together from her description of Kyle Austin’s killer. The same cold eyes, masked behind a different pair of glasses, looked back at her and she shivered. “Am I in any danger?”

“All you’ve done is look at a ten-year-old photo. If we bring this guy in, and you identify him, we’ll put you in a safe house until his case goes to trial. Otherwise…” he pulled out the statement she’d signed earlier, folded it up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, “you’re listed as a Jane Doe informant in my report.”

“And I’ve talked to the prison about expunging your name from their files,” Fensom added. “You won’t even be in the M.E.’s report on Kyle Austin’s death. Until we find him and arrest him, he has no reason to see you as a threat.”

She pointed to the computer-generated picture. “Are you sure?”

Spencer Montgomery crossed to the door and opened it, indicating she was finally free to go. “I’d recommend practicing common sense when it comes to your personal safety, but I think extreme measures would only raise a red flag at this point. You be sure to contact us if you think of anything else, or if you do feel threatened in any way. You have my card, Miss Doe.”