Perfect Victim, The (22 page)

He felt stronger after nearly five months out of the field. Stronger
,
but not yet fully healed
.
He wasn
'
t sure if he would ever recover fully
.
He wasn't sure a man ever came to terms with the kinds of horrors he'd seen
.

Still
,
he knew he had to go back to D
.
C
.
And even as the thought sent a quiver of fear through his gut, he felt the pull of its seductive draw and knew it was something he had to do no matter what the cost to him personally. He'd been successful in D.C
.
A good investigator
.
Aggressive
.
Thor
ough. Tough. A man with integrity who commanded respect. He knew the wide-body jets inside and out. He knew the hydraulic systems, the Pratt and Whitney engines, the Rolls Royces. A pilot himself, he knew firsthand the stringent training programs commercial pilots went through.

But with all the invaluable knowledge and experience came the terrible, intimate knowledge of death that had pushed him so close to the edge. Death that knew no bounds and struck by the hundreds without regard to age or gender or status. He'd been arrogant enough to believe he was immune. But he'd only managed to fool himself. Death had left a permanent imprint on his heart and darkened his soul so that for months he'd felt its power pressing down on him, isolating him until he'd felt so alone he thought he would die. The nightmares had eased since he cut back on his drinking, but sometimes when he smelled smoke or heard an ambulance, the death and devastation came rushing back.

Refusing to think of the past or the shaky state of his future, Randall forced his attention back to the present—and to the young woman beside him. She looked fresh and wholesome and untainted, reminding him of everything he was not—and the countless reasons he ought to stay away from her. He let his eyes skim over her unfettered. Navy blue leggings hugged long, shapely legs. Her oversized sweatshirt sported a University of Colorado logo. The thick wool socks and lace-up hiking boots looked huge on her slender legs. He drank in the subtle outline of her breasts, her graceful neck, the delicate line of her jaw. Even in profile, she looked beautiful. But it was the sight of her full, wet mouth that turned him inside out every time he looked at her.

Lord have mercy, he'd forgotten what it was like to look at a woman and want to lose himself inside her.

He'd tried to talk her into spending the day at his office with Jack, but she refused. No surprise there; she wasn't the most agreeable creature he'd ever dealt with. He'd tried to convince her to meet with Van-Dyne then hole up the rest
of the afternoon at Jack's cabin in Golden
,
but his efforts to sway her had failed. The woman could be downright exasperating when she put her mind to it
.

But if he was honest with himself, he would be forced to admit he was glad for her company today. With his thoughts drifting back to D.C. with increasing frequency, he needed the diversion. He supposed she had no way of knowing she turned h
i
m into a walking hard-on.

Randall sighed, not happy about the situation
.
He couldn
'
t remember the last time he'd been with a woman
.
Not since he'd been in Co
l
orado. Maybe that was the problem; maybe he just needed some good old-fashioned mindless sex. A man's needs could only be shoved aside for so long
.
A bottle of Chivas Regal only went so far to stanch them. Maybe what he needed was a one-night stand
,
a moment of unfettered warmth and the release that went with it.

He wasn
'
t buying it
.

The last thing he needed in his screwed-up life was an attractive, complicated female in trouble up to her eyebrows
.
The problem was, he wanted her anyway.

It had taken every bit of self
-
discipline he could muster not to take her into his arms last night and get a taste of that heart-shaped mouth. Of course
,
she probably wouldn't have thought that was such a good idea. But he wasn't going to be able to keep his hands off her much longer, even though he knew where that would lead. The moment he touched her, he would not only lose the advantage of distance
,
but probably end up hurting her as well.

She didn't know about his diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. Randall didn't plan on telling her
.
He didn't want her to know his life had been turned upside down
.
That he'd lost his integrity. His self-respect
.
Or that he'd been flirting with alcoholism for the better part of a year
.

The smartest thing to do was to turn the case over to Jack, then haul ass back to Washington before he got tangled up with her. Before she found out what kind of man she was dealing with
.
When this was all over, she could go back to
her coffee shop and find the kind of man she deserved.

Someone who didn't have blackouts or spend most of his time thinking about the dead.

"Good thing I came along, Talbot. The way you're daydreaming, you probably wouldn't have been able to find the place without me."

Her voice jerked Randall from his thoughts. "I wasn't daydreaming," he growled.

"Were, too."

He glared at her, annoyed that she looked so damn good and that he couldn't seem to stop noticing. "I was thinking about the case—"

"Bull—"

"And what a pain in the ass you are."

Flipping on the radio, she tuned it to an alternative rock station and gave him a cool look. "Cranky this morning?"

He thought about telling her the real reason why he was feeling so surly, but decided the less she knew about his hormones the better off he'd be. "You'll know it when I feel cranky."

"I'll take that as a warning."

Studying her, he noticed the strain in her smile and realized the banter was a front. Damn. He should have realized this wasn't going to be easy for her. "You didn't have to put yourself through coming up here.”

"Careful, Talbot, or you're going to say something nice."

“
Don't get your hopes up."

They rode in silence for a moment. Then he asked, "Where did it happen?"

"Near Hoosier Pass, just off of Highway 9."

He looked away from his driving, noticed the pain in her eyes, and a jolt of affection shot through the center of him.

"How much do you know about the accident?"

She made a show of brushing a piece of lint from her leggings. ''I'd had Mom and Dad over for dinner that evening. I'd just moved into my apartment, and was having a
sort of housewarming party. They left a little before midnight
.
"

Her voice was carefully monotone. Randall steeled himself against it, knowing it was her way of hiding her pain. He
'
d done the same thing too many times himself not to recognize it
.
Funny how clear
'
things became when they happened to someone else
.

"They were almost home," she continued. "My father lost control on a curve. The car went off the road and rolled nearly two hundred feet
.
" She stared straight ahead. Her hands twisted in her lap. "The sheriff's report said runoff from snow in the higher elevations earlier in the day froze after dark. My father hit a patch of ice
.
They didn't have a chance
.
"

"Who investigated the accident?" he asked.

''The Summit County Sheriff's Department
.
"

"We'll pay them a visit
.
" Remembering his unpleasant encounter with Sheriff McEvoy back in Siloam Springs, he hoped the sheriff of Summit County would be a little more helpful
.
Damn, he hated small
-
town law enforcement
.

Addison liked Sheriff Jefferson White the moment she met him
.
He was a burly African American in his late forties with intelligent eyes and an undeniable air of competence
.
He wore a crisp khaki uniform with a chrome badge pinned neatly below his name tag.

"Sorry
you
had to wait." He extended his hand first to Addison, then to Randall
.

"We appreciate your time, Sheriff
.
" Randall removed his
P
.
I. license from his wallet and flashed it at the sheriff. "We
'
d like
to have a look
,
at an accident report for a double fatality last February
.
"

"The files are in my office." White turned and guided them down a narrow hall. "Want some
-
hot coffee?" he asked
.

"No
.
"

"I'd love some."

The answers came simultaneously, inducing grins from all three- "It's stale, but hot." White handed a cup to Addison then motioned toward the end office. "Right this way."

The sheriff's workspace was overused and cramped. A large metal desk flanked by boxes faced the door. Addison seated herself in one of the two sled chairs opposite the desk.

Randall sat beside her. The sheriff went to the file cabinet. "What were the names of the victims?” he asked.

Addison didn't like the word victim. She hated it that her parents, two vivacious, loving people, had been reduced to “the victims.” "Patty and Larry Fox," she answered, forcing herself to relax her grip on her purse.

The sheriff flipped through several files. "Ah, here we go."

Addison's palms dampened as he pulled out a file folder with a case number typed in bold letters at the top. It was all that was left. Two lives condensed into a neat file with a typed label.

Settling behind the desk, the sheriff opened the file and gave it a cursory read before handing it to Randall: "Do you mind if I ask why you folks are up here looking at a file that's, what, ten months old?"

''They were my parents," Addison answered quickly.

Sheriff White touched the rim of his hat. "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Tough to lose family."

''Thank you:" She was anxious to get her hands on the file. The last time she looked at it, she'd been so overwhelmed with grief that she hadn't paid much attention to the details. She certainly hadn't been looking for evidence of murder.