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Authors: Leslie Parrish

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BOOK: Cold Touch
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the games and machinations.

“The truth should suffice,” Julia said from the lawn below. “Your partner didn’t show up for work, you grew concerned when

you couldn’t reach him.” Then she looked at Olivia. “Your girlfriend knew you were coming over here and was worried about

you, and showed up a few minutes later.”

That was the truth. A skimmed-down version but the truth nonetheless.

“I guess,” he muttered before crossing the porch and slowly descending the steps. He looked at Julia for a moment, as if he

wanted to say something. Olivia had the feeling he didn’t know whether to thank her or tel her he hated her guts for being the

one to bring him such evil, life-altering news. In the end, he said nothing, just nodding once and then walking past her toward

the street to wait for the emergency vehicles.

Olivia watched his every move, noting the slump in his shoulders, the trudge in his step. He seemed a little shel -shocked,

too fil ed with grief to think of anything else.

She understood; she felt almost as crushed.

But she was stil able to think clearly.

Apparently, so was Julia. The other woman cleared her throat and gave her a pointed stare from a few steps below. She

cocked her head, listening as the sirens drew closer, probably no more than a couple of minutes away.

“Wel ?” Julia asked, leaving the decision in Olivia’s hands.

She was torn. On the one hand, she knew Gabe wouldn’t want her to put herself through it—he’d made that clear last night.

On the other, she knew he’d move heaven and hel to solve his partner’s murder.

Olivia could solve it. Right now, right this minute. Not only solve it, she might also be able to save a child’s life.

She could sit right on the step where he’d been sitting, extend one hand two feet into the house and place the tip of her

finger against one of Ty’s. She wouldn’t have to go inside, wouldn’t disturb any possible evidence, wouldn’t touch anything else

except a centimeter of his partner’s body.

Gabe was leaning against a tree by his car, keeping his back toward them, his hand raised to his face. Grieving privately,

trying to get it out before his coworkers showed up and the situation changed from the site of a friend’s death to a crime

scene.

The sirens. Louder now
.

Ten blocks? Eight?

Julia continued to stare. Silent. Nonjudging. Saying she’d support her either way.

Unable to resist, Olivia turned and looked over her shoulder into the house. Her eyes immediately went to that helpless

hand, and she was struck with a deep, nearly inconsolable sadness for al the things Ty would never have, never hold, never

do.

That hand would never brush the cheek of a woman he loved, never wear a wedding ring, never tickle his child’s feet, never

again wave goodbye to a friend.

Al that glorious potential was wiped out, his empty hand ful of nothing but the remnants of possibility that could have been

the rest of Ty Wal ace’s life. Like dark streams of smoke and ash, those hopes for the future eluded his grasp, dissipating into

the ether of lost dreams and unmet expectations.

Tears streaming down her face, Olivia made her decision.

Ty had died because he’d wanted to save a child’s life. His sacrifice deserved to be honored . . . and shared. Even if it

would hurt her terribly to share it.

She slowly lowered herself to the metal doorstep on which Gabe had been sitting. Not touching the door or the jamb, or the

carpet, mindful of every possible fingerprint, hair or fiber, she reached inside, noting the cooler air against her skin. She hesitated for just a second while she mental y prepared herself, then extended her hand.

She thought she heard someone yel ing in the distance. But it was too late.

By that time, Olivia had already brushed her fingertip against Ty’s cold, dead skin.

Monday, 1:15 a.m., eleven hours ago

Ty usual y had no trouble sleeping. Once his head hit the pil ow, he was almost always out immediately, sleeping like the dead.

His granny cal ed that the sleep of a righteous man. He cal ed it the sleep of a dog-tired one.

Tonight, though, he’d had trouble. He’d been tossing and turning, running everything over in his head. The case, of course,

but also the big pit of psychic quicksand he and his partner had somehow walked into. He’d seen and heard stuff in the past

two days that would stay with him the rest of his days. Just thinking about the story Olivia had told, about experiencing the final

minutes of that boy’s life, was enough to make him want to get down on his knees and give thanks that he’d never had a near-

death experience.

One of these days he intended to ask Gabe how he real y felt about it. There was no way his partner could disguise the fact

that he was fal ing for the woman—and Ty wondered if the man had real y given it a lot of thought, what being involved with

someone like that would mean. Marrying her, having kids with her, with what was in her head? How could he ever do it?

“Okay, head, empty out—time to sleep,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. He tried to picture sheep up there, jumping

over a little fence, but that just made him hungry. He hadn’t had his mom’s roast lamb with mint jel y in a long time.

Knowing his partner was a night owl, he thought about cal ing him, but honestly, until he had solid news to share, he didn’t

real y want to. Part of him hadn’t been disappointed not to have reached Gabe earlier tonight, because Ty had almost as many

questions as he did answers.

It wasn’t that he’d had no luck with his investigation.

No, he hadn’t spoken with the detective who’d handled the Virginia Jane Doe murder case. The man had retired a few

years back, and nobody was around on a Sunday evening who could tel Ty how to contact him.

And no, he hadn’t been able to reach the father of the missing child who he thought might have been their Zachary. The

man’s last known number had been disconnected, and a quick property search showed his house—his last known address

—had been sold almost twenty years ago.

Ty had searched online, looking through driver’s license records, arrests and criminal cases, and hadn’t found anything on

the man. He knew he’d be able to run a more extensive search on property and tax records in the morning when he could get

some help, have live people to talk to. But he had exhausted what he could do on a Sunday night.

With one option left, he’d crossed his fingers and tried cal ing the only other relative named in the case file, the father’s

cousin.

mentioned the missing boy and his father. Then the voice on the phone had gone from friendly and confused to wary and

cautious.

That’s what was keeping him up.

Gabe had been tel ing him for a year that the best detectives learned to rely on their intuition. That while cold, hard facts

were most important, knowing how to recognize that churning in your gut or the tightening in the back of your neck could also

be critical. And his Spidey senses had been tingling up a storm during that telephone conversation, which he replayed in his

mind

Johnny’s gone. He left the country. His heart was just broken to pieces when he lost his baby boy—that was awful, what

his wife did, stealing Zachary away.

When Ty had asked where Zachary’s father was now, he’d been told this “Johnny” had joined the army and hadn’t come

back for a visit in more than ten years.

It was possible, he supposed. It would explain the lack of local records. Stil , Ty hadn’t been completely convinced.

Mainly because his stomach had churned. And the back of his neck had felt tight when he’d hung up at the end of the conversation.

That cousin knew something. He’d lay money on it. Hopeful y, tomorrow, he and Gabe could figure out how to get that information.

Knowing he wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, Ty got out of bed, having decided to go do some more surfing on

the Internet. See if he could find out anything else about this family.

“Gonna be an early morning,” he muttered, eyeing the clock. But being awake and working was better than being awake

and tossing around in his bed. So he headed for the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, then went into the tiny spare

room he used as an office. He turned on his laptop and, while it fired up, flipped open the folder with the report on Zachary and

his mother. He’d skimmed it earlier, but now he read a little more careful y, paying special attention to any mention of the rest

of the family.

It was while reading a transcript of the father’s statement to police, when he’d reported that his wife had kidnapped their

son, that the tension he’d been feeling became a ful -on frenzy.

He stared at the father’s name. Then stared at the boy’s name. Then stared at the nickname the father had used for him.

Then remembered every word Olivia had said about Zachary’s last minutes.

“Oh, no, you didn’t,” he whispered. “You son of a bitch, no, you did
not
.”

He read it again.

She took him. I love him—I still love her, too—it broke my heart when she left me, officer. But him, my son—God, why

would she do such a thing? Why would she take my little Jackie-boy when he’s all I got?

“You motherfucking piece of shit,” he snapped, hearing his own anger in the darkness. As it al washed over him, the whole,

ugly truth, he lurched out of his chair, needing to go get something stronger to drink than water. “Bastard, hanging’s too good

for you. What kind of father would do that?” he muttered as he walked out of the office into the dark living room.

He didn’t even see the man until he charged forward, the gleam of moonlight reflecting against the long, sharp blade in his

hand.

Ty was caught total y off guard, never in a mil ion years expecting something like this, so he was a bit slower to respond than

he might otherwise have been. But he did respond. He instinctively threw up his arm, to ward off the blow. He gasped, taking a

deep slice to the forearm, glad only for the fact that the hunting knife had missed its intended target—his chest or throat.

The shadowy figure came at him again, from the right, and Ty spun around, knocking over a table and lamp. He kicked out

with his right foot, making contact with a beefy leg. But his bare foot barely slowed the bastard down, and the knife arced

through the air, cutting into the back of Ty’s calf.

“Ah, God!” he cried, pain exploding through him. “Christ, who are you? What do you want?”

“You shoulda minded yer own bizness,” the voice said. “Left me and Jackie alone.”

He suddenly got it and knew he was fighting a madman, fighting for his life. Despite the pain, he found some wel of strength

and startled his attacker by launching forward, barreling right into his chest. They both fel , rol ing across the floor until they

slammed into the couch. Ty ended up on top of the man’s back, and he swung his left fist, hard, hitting his assailant in the

kidneys.

The man grunted in pain, squirming, but Ty hit again. He looked frantical y around, seeing nothing close enough to use as a

weapon. The knife had flown out of the man’s hands, too far for either of them to use it, and Ty’s service weapon was holstered

in his bedroom.

He punched a third time as the man bucked, pushing himself up to his knees, taking Ty with him. The room had begun to

spin. Glancing down, Ty saw blood gushing from his leg.

He tried to hold on, knowing if the man got up, it would al be over. Ty’s right arm was hanging useless by his side, and he

wasn’t sure he could walk on his leg, which stil throbbed with the kind of pain he hadn’t known was possible.

It was a losing battle.

Though he tried desperately to wrap his good arm around the man’s thick neck, he just couldn’t hold on, growing weaker

with every second that passed. His attacker final y threw him off and staggered to his feet. Ty rol ed onto his knees and glared

at the other man, hating him, wanting to lunge forward and rip him apart with one hand and his teeth if he had to. But he could

barely see his attacker much less do anything to hurt him from here. He was several feet away, it was too dark, and Ty was too

badly hurt.

He considered diving for the knife, or trying to rol —or hel , crawl—to his room, which had never looked so far away. But

before he could do either one, he saw the kil er pul something out of his pocket.

A gun.

Fuck.

His assailant raised the weapon, pointed it. Ty lifted a hand, palm out, as if to ward him off. But he didn’t beg, didn’t plead.

This bastard had come here for this, to kil him. There was no mercy in his veins. What he’d done to poor little Zachary—John

Zachary Traynor, who his father had cal ed Jackie-boy—was eternal proof that he had no soul.

Ty was about to die. His life was ending at the age of twenty-six.

Knowing that, his mind churned frantical y. He had seconds at most, and while he wanted to think about his parents and his

granny and his brothers, and his partner, and oh, God, how he wanted to think about Brooke Wainwright’s pretty smile and her

soft hair, he knew he didn’t have that luxury.

He had to leave a message.

“Liv,” he muttered, “he kil ed his son. His own son. Zachary was Jackie-boy. Tel Gabe—look at the noncustodials. Tel him

the name John . . .”

Pop
.

He flew back, landing on the floor a few feet from his front door, wondering why he hadn’t heard much of a shot or why it

didn’t real y hurt. Had it been some kind of tranquilizer. . . ?

BOOK: Cold Touch
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