miles in, the truck traffic thinned, the boulders softened and houses began to appear. Farmhouses at first, followed by larger, turn-of-the-century homes that ambled back from tree-lined streets.
A rustic sign with a hand-carved mountain peak rising above a lake welcomed them to Blue Ridge, Home of the Happy Mountaineer. Population five thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven.
Sig glanced in the rearview mirror. “Do you see my smokes back there?”
“No, and I’m not digging through a pile of old food wrappers and napkins to find them. You’re a rolling health hazard, Detective Rayburn. Cigar stubs, cigarette butts and God knows how many million bacteria, all alive and thriving inside your vehicle. You inhale coffee like air, pour enough grease into your arteries to kill an elephant and probably haven’t gotten eight hours of smoke-free sleep since you joined the force.”
He chuckled. “You’re a shrink, Sera. What does a head doctor know about high cholesterol, lung disease and sleep deprivation? “
She lifted the dark hair from her neck. “Among other things, my uncle does a weekend medical clinic in Haight-Ashbury. I help out when he needs it, which is often because he tends to be overrun and doesn’t like to turn anyone away. How do you know him, Sig?” she asked after a brief pause. “The cop with the …” She started to say sexy mouth but changed it to “… black hat?”
He peered into the setting sun. “Oh, Logan and me go way back.” A finger tapped the windshield. “Is he pulling off the road? All I can see is dust.”
“Gravel parking lot.” She let her hair fall. “My skin hates you.”
“Your skin’s gorgeous, as, I trust, are your manners. Five stars …”
“Yes, I know. Only in the night sky. As long as the food’s recognizable, I’m good.”
And more than ready to stop, she realized, stretching her back as she slid from the car seat.
Every article of clothing she wore, from the pale-green linen halter to the white capris stuck to some part of her body. And it was going to be an adventure navigating the unpaved, pothole-filled parking lot in strappy three-inch heels.
A collection of trucks and SUVs sat at odd angles outside the weather-beaten one-story building whose sign read Frank’s Diner.
She stopped stretching to do a humorous double take down the side. “Are those horses?”
“The bay’s Billy the Kid. The black is Jesse James.”
She suppressed an urge to jump when the cop in jeans wrapped his fingers around her arm.
“Nadine’s grandfather swears one of his ancestors was related to Jesse.”
“So he named a horse after him.”
She caught the quirk of his lips in profile. “No one you know’s ever been named for a dead relative?”
“Not a notorious one, Officer …”
“Leave it at Logan.”
“Evening, Chief. Rain’s coming.” The man shambling past, sprinkling tobacco in a rolling paper, barely spared them a glance. “It’s my night for poker if you feel like letting us win back some of our hard-earned cash. Wouldn’t blame you a mite, though, if not. She’s a real pretty lady.”
Sera would have grinned if she hadn’t caught the edge of a rut and almost snapped her ankle in two.
“Horses, poker and holes big enough to swallow small children. I’m charmed.” She cast the man who’d caught her a sideways look. “Chief.”
“It’s a label. Means nothing.”
“Uh-huh. It only signifies that you’re in charge of a town containing five thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven souls. Which would make sense at this point in Sig’s life. But everything about you screams big city cop to me.”
His lips quirked again. “You might want to check your inner voice, Doc. Cities and me don’t get along these days.”
Meaning they had once? Interesting, she reflected, as they reached the diner’s porch. But it wasn’t as interesting as the fact that he knew her name and undoubtedly her story.
Several feet behind them, Sig sucked smoke into his lungs at an alarming rate. Because her arm was tingling, Sera eased free and strove for an unimpeded look at the man called Logan.
He was tall and rangy, with sleek muscles, long legs and dark hair that curled well below the back of his hat. He needed a cut and a shave. And she needed distance because not only was her skin tingling, but also her pulse was doing an erratic tap dance.
Food would help, she decided, plucking at the front of her top. “Is Nadine a good cook?”
“Best down home in Blue Ridge.”
“He means if you’re expecting art on a plate, you won’t get it here.” Sig studied the black clouds massing over the distant Big Horns. “Those coming this way?”
“Joe says they are. He’s usually right.”
“Then we should get down to business.”
Sera arched guileless brows. “We’re doing business? I thought we stopped here for answers and a hearty meal.”
“I’m stopping, Doc. Got something different in mind for you.”
Where was a control button when you needed one?
“Sig …”
“You’re not stopping, Sera. You’re staying.”
Prepared for that response, she met his hard stare and simply asked, “Why?”
“Because I trust Logan. He’s the best, and as bad as I wanted that bastard Blindfold Killer before, I want him doubly bad now. He’s murdered sixteen people over the years. That includes his most recent victims, your friend and my partner. You saw his face, Doc. I know it, and so do you. Unfortunately—and this is where my faith in Logan comes in—one hell of a vicious killer knows it, too.”
Chapter Two
“Your captain told me about the Blindfold Killer, Sig,” Sera said. “No one’s sure why he ties a white bandanna over his victims’ eyes. He’s killed eleven people over a seven-year period, all in the Bay area. The San Francisco Police arrested a suspect four years ago, but they were forced to release him on a technicality.”
“Illegal search of his living quarters,” Logan said. “The officer in charge assumed a warrant was en route. He was mistaken.”
“Said officer has since been demoted and put in charge of a desk,” Sig added gruffly. Then he brightened. “Ah, here we go. Food.”
Their dinner arrived courtesy of a buxom fifty-something blonde. It might not be gourmet, but it looked delicious. Almost as delicious as the man seated across from her.
