Marked for Murder: Keller County Cops, #1

Chapter One

Detective Jonah McKee gulped down the last of his coffee and pulled out his cell phone. At least it hadn't rung until after he'd finished his sandwich. He brought the device to his ear. McKee.

Jonah, it's Missy.

Well, this is a surprise. Jonah sat back in his chair. His ex-wife never called except to tell him he couldn't have Aiden, their two-year-old son, for the weekend. What's up?

Just wanted to let you know that I'm, um... moving again.

What are you talking about? Jonah frowned. She'd just uprooted their son from their sprawling suburban home two months ago and moved into a tiny apartment in downtown New Orleans. From a big fenced yard to concrete in a single day.

She hesitated. I'm taking a job in L.A.

You're taking our son to the west coast? Panic strangled Jonah. He wasn't exactly at ease with Aiden, but he didn't want to lose him,  especially while he was still learning to be a father. Missy, you can't.

I can, and I am. It's a great opportunity. I have a job lined up, an apartment—and an audition for a TV series.

What about Aiden?

I can't pass this up, Jonah. That's why I'm calling you, she said. You have to take him, at least for a while. I'll be doing auditions, and if I get the series—

Wait. He struggled to wrap his brain around her words. You never let him stay overnight with me, much less over a weekend, and now you're giving me custody?

Not custody. Once I'm settled, I want him back.

Oh, I see. That was just like his ex-wife. Using their son as leverage to get what she wanted. Talk about self-centered...

She paused. So... you'll take him?

Of course I will, he said, although he didn't know how he'd balance a more-than-full-time job with a rowdy two year-old at home. When are you leaving?

In the morning, after I drop him off at daycare. You can leave him there all day during the week, but you'll have to leave your precious job by six o'clock every evening to pick him up.

I'll do whatever I have to do. He gritted his teeth. Anything for Aiden. What about his stuff? His clothes and toys?

A beep sounded on the line.

Missy laughed sharply. You've got another call. So typical. We'll talk about it later, 'kay, Jonah? 'Bye.

Wait, Missy! he shouted sharply into the phone. No dice. She was gone. Damn it.

He thumbed the flash button. McKee.

Jonah, I need you at a scene out on Highway 463. Mitch Ransom's slow drawl crawled over his skin like drugged ants. We've got another body.

Perfect. Jonah muttered a vicious expletive and jotted down the location. His fellow detective and sometime-partner certainly knew how to get the week off to a crappy start—and Missy's evasiveness hadn't helped one damn bit. I'll be there in fifteen.

He exited the coffee shop in bustling Hunter's Bayou, Mississippi and headed to the outskirts of town. He'd moved here from New Orleans a few months after his divorce and settled in as an investigator with the Keller County Sheriff's Department after ten years with NOPD. The place was smaller, but the crime rate was just as high thanks to the plethora of people who'd fled The Big Easy after Hurricane Katrina.

He found the crime scene with no problem and pulled off the side of the narrow two-lane highway behind a single cruiser with flashing blue lights and Mitch's steel gray departmental sedan. Muggy summer air swept over him as he climbed from his matching vehicle and slammed the door. Dusk would soon fall, bringing with it a thick purple haze, and unless they hurried they would need lights.

What have we got? he called to Mitch, who was standing with a uniformed deputy at the edge of a wide, grassy ditch.

The detective turned. Another body wrapped like a burrito. The same sick bastard's hit again.

Jonah fisted his hands. Three dead women had been found rolled in tarps in Keller County during the last two months. This made four.

He skirted Mitch's pristine ride, halted at the edge of the ditch, and studied the long bundle. A kernel of foreboding settled in the pit of his stomach. Who found this one?

A guy on a bicycle who stopped to take a leak, the deputy said. He had to get to a meeting in town, so I let him go. I got his information for you, though.

Good, Jonah said.

Mitch blew out a sigh. I haven't examined it yet. I saved that job for you, since you're on tonight and I'm about to head to the house.

Thanks a lot, my friend. Jonah snaked his way through the tall grass lining the ditch and crouched beside the rolled tarp. The metallic scent of blood met his nose.

He paused to gather his courage, and then carefully peeled back the tarp's frayed edge. A hand flopped out.

His blood curdled. The hand was small, pale, and bruised. Definitely female. Blood was caked beneath two of the victim's fingernails. Bile surged up his throat.

He turned to Mitch. Are the coroner and CSU on their way?

Yeah. He glanced at his watch. Shouldn't be long now.

With a brisk nod, Jonah lifted the canvas and examined the body more closely. The bruises on the woman's arm looked suspiciously like fingerprints, telling him she'd been manhandled before she was murdered—just like the other three.

Wanting a peek at her palm, he gingerly touched her thumb. Shock streaked through him. The digit was warm.

Oh, God. He jerked back. Call an ambulance. She's alive.

Are you freaking kidding me? Mitch stomped toward him through the ditch. Damn. I never would have waited—

I know. Call it in. Jonah's heart hammered. He dropped to his knees and peeled back the stained canvas, digging through several layers of material to reach her face. Her cheeks were pale and covered with deep purple contusions. Her bottom lip was split, and a trickle of fresh blood dampened her hairline.

He pulled back the last piece of canvas and fixed his gaze on her chest, which was indeed rising and falling. For more assurance, he pressed two fingers to her neck to check her pulse. Sure enough, it was there. Weak, but steady.

Mitch called emergency services and notified the coroner to tell him to hold off, then dropped to his haunches beside Jonah. Somebody beat the hell out of her.

Probably the same guy. Thought he killed her, but— He swallowed. Her hair was a wild tangle of chocolate curls matted with blood. He touched her cheek and was amazed by how warm she was even though her skin was as sallow as copy paper. Damn. She's feverish.

I'm not surprised.

Jonah got up as a white crime scene van emblazoned with the Keller County logo pulled onto the shoulder of the road in front of the cruiser. He wiped a layer of sweat off his brow and instructed the deputy to string crime scene tape around the perimeter of the area.

The man hustled off to do his bidding, bypassing two CSU technicians who spilled from the van.

Jonah nodded at the pair of techs. This one's alive, boys. We're waiting on EMS.

Damn. Hope they hurry, one said, gaping down at the woman. She's in bad shape.

Yeah, she is. Jonah found himself wanting to cover her up, even though she was dressed in what had once been a nice white blouse and a pair of charcoal gray dress pants. Both were now filthy, and her shirt was ripped.

He stepped closer to the first tech. Snap a few pictures, will you, Ben? Once EMS arrives, she'll be whisked into the ambulance.

Sure thing, Detective. The tech hefted his camera, stepped into the ditch, and got to work photographing the victim, the wedge of canvas, and the steamy stretch of highway.

The popping flash seemed like a sacrilege to Jonah considering the woman's injuries, but he knew it had to be done.

Once the tech was finished, he climbed back through the ditch. That should do it. He slapped a mosquito off his jaw. You can get some more pictures in the ER. I'm guessing she has more contusions underneath those clothes.

Probably. The knot in Jonah's gut tightened. A siren's loud wail cut through the heavy air, and he released a pent up breath. Thanks. Once they take her, you can have the scene.

Works for me, the tech said. That tarp looks like the ones that were wrapped around the other three victims. Make sure you bag it in the ER and get it to the lab. We'll make a comparison and get back to you ASAP.

You bet. Thanks.

Could you tell if she had any ID? Mitch asked him.

Jonah frowned. No. Guess we'll know for sure once the EMTs peel away the rest of the canvas.

The ambulance's siren whooped, and he rubbed his aching temples. At least this wasn't another homicide—as long as the woman pulled through. With any luck, she'd be able to identify her assailant, and they might actually be able to catch the guy before he hurt anybody else. Three women were dead—if they had found them all—and this one would have died, too, if that bicyclist hadn't found her.

He glanced at Mitch. I'm going to follow the ambulance, in case she wakes up.

Might have to hand her off to another unit once you question her. Mitch sent him a telling look as the ambulance cut the siren and pulled off the highway.

He nodded. If she was raped, Special Victims will help us. They'll need my statement either way, and whatever they learn from her might help us with our serial killer.

She's our only living witness.

Exactly, Jonah said, as two EMTs jumped out of the emergency vehicle and jogged through the ditch.

Holy cow. Who did this? The Handyman? The taller of the two men dropped to his knees beside the woman and took her pulse, his long chocolate fingers in deep contrast with her ashen skin.

Jonah stared at the victim as the other EMT set his bright orange case on the ground beside her feet.

Probably, he said, irritated that the man had referred to their killer by the name given to him by the media, who'd jumped on the fact that each of the bodies found so far had been wrapped in canvas tarps normally used by house painters. It's the same MO. Don't know if her head injury is from the attack, though, or from hitting the ground when he tossed her.

I'd say somebody whacked her over the head. The EMT looked up. The injury's to the crown of her skull, and has a distinct shape. The ground is slanted, but... she didn't land on anything that I can see, and certainly not with the top of her head.

Jonah murmured a foul oath. That wasn't what he wanted to hear, but with all of her other bruises and the injuries to the first three victims, he wasn't surprised. Watching the EMTs unwrap her, he vowed to find the man who'd hurt her. He'd obviously meant to finish the job.

Mitch ran a hand over his brow. Bastard thought she was dead.

No doubt. Anger fired through Jonah, and he bit out another harsh curse. For some reason, he felt an odd connection with this woman, maybe because she halfway resembled his little sister Kim, who'd died when they were just teenagers.

Mitch lifted a brow.

Jonah wagged his head to discourage his friend from questioning his reaction. Then he changed the subject. Missy called and wants me to keep Aiden for a while.

Since when?

Since she got a job in L.A. He set his jaw. It's a long story.

I see, Mitch said. Well, with this attack tied to our serial case—

I know, we'll be busy. I'm on it. Jonah's fury increased as the EMTs lifted the woman onto a gurney and loaded her into the back of the ambulance. Bag the tarp and send it over to the lab in Biloxi, will you? Get 'em to put a rush on it.

Sure thing, Detective.

Thanks. He slapped Mitch on the back and focused on the woman's prone form. Did she have any family or close friends who should be notified? Was anybody, maybe even her husband, looking for her? He remembered studying her hand and abruptly realized she wore no jewelry and had no tan line on her ring finger. The tightness in his chest eased a bit.

Mitch turned. When do you pick up Aiden?

Tomorrow at six. A fresh surge of panic, unrelated to their current case, seized Jonah. He had no idea how to take care of a toddler. He'd never been allowed to keep Aiden long enough to learn, and now...

He swallowed and climbed into the sedan.

*****

A series of high-pitched beeps bounced around inside her throbbing skull. Her throat ached, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't open her eyes. Her lips were dry. She longed to wet them but didn't have any saliva.

Memories came to her in tiny fragments, but none were coherent enough for her to understand anything. She didn't know where she was, why she was here, or even who she was.

She wracked her brain for a name, for a picture of her face or any clue to her identity, and came up empty. Panic washed over her. Desperate to fight through the strange white fog blocking her memories, she tried to sit up.

Where... am I? she croaked. Her throat burned. Tears filled her eyes, and she clawed the tube in her nose. Please... help... me.

Whoa, take it easy, a male voice said. The owner of the husky baritone caught her hands and held them down. You're going to hurt yourself.

Let me... go. She struggled to pull free. P-Please.

Calm down, and I will. He held her fast. Okay? I don't want you to pull out your IV.

His voice wasn't threatening like the one echoing inside her head. She couldn't put a face to that one, but it scared her. No, the new voice was strong and soothing, like smooth-blended whiskey—the high dollar kind. He kept talking, and she finally stopped fighting. What good was it doing, anyway? She couldn't sit up, no matter how hard she tried.

She was tired. So tired, and she ached all over. She didn't know why, or what might have happened to her, but she knew it must have been bad if she couldn't remember her own name.

Finally, with great effort, she blinked, and her eyelids allowed a bit of light inside. They didn't open all the way, but enough for her to glimpse stark white walls and a worn off-white blanket. The annoying beeps still echoed in her ears, and she finally realized she lay in a hospital bed. Fear tumbled through her.

She opened her eyes wide, took a deep breath, and struggled to focus. Her frantic gaze landed on a man—the power behind the voice—a strapping, handsome stranger in a dark blue dress shirt and matching tie. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with short dark hair, a trench between his brows from frowning too much, and a grim look on his beard-shadowed face. She didn't have a clue who he was, yet his hands were gentle on hers. She fought the urge to pull away and instead drew in another cautious breath. Her chest hurt.

It's okay, he said softly. You're in a hospital.

Well, duh. She'd figured out that much. What she didn't know was who she was, where the hospital was located, or how she'd gotten here. The panic she'd tamped down only seconds ago resurfaced, and she gulped it back. Her mouth was so dry.

Water, she croaked, trapping his fingers with all ten of hers. P-Please.

I'll get you some. He tugged on her hands. But you have to let me go. I can't pick up the pitcher with my teeth.

The image that popped into her head made her laugh, and pain lanced her ribs. She broke off the snicker and groaned.

He twisted his lips. That'll teach you.

No... fair, she said with a wince.

A grin ghosted over his lips, and he reached over to the bedside table, coming up with a small pitcher and a Styrofoam cup. He opened the pitcher and filled the cup with something white. Crushed ice?

No. She scowled. "I need... water."

Sorry, but the doctor said you can only have ice chips for now. He set the pitcher back on the table and raised the cup to her lips. Open your mouth, and I'll drop some in.

Desperate to wet her throat, she cooperated with him. Almost immediately, the ice chips hit her tongue. She relished their slick coolness as they melted in her mouth. Moisture trickled over her parched membranes, and she suppressed a moan of appreciation.

He shook the cup. Want some more?

Please, she rasped, hungry for relief from the heat flaring inside her body.

His gaze locked with hers, and she abruptly realized his eyes were a deep cobalt blue that matched his shirt. His gaze was searing in its intensity, and it started a whole other ache inside her. He dribbled another batch of ice chips into her mouth,