chest. She was getting paranoid. He wasn’t going to identify her from DNA. She wasn’t in the system.
Reilly carefully moved her hair and dabbed at the cut on her head. She flinched at the pain and he murmured an apology. He was being kind and gentle, disarming her defenses. White Knight Syndrome, Carey diagnosed. He liked coming to the aid of a damsel in distress.
“Will you work with a sketch artist?” he asked.
She ignored the stinging as he cleaned her cut. “I didn’t see anything.”
Detective Truman turned her chair to face him and crouched down, putting his face close to hers. It was impossible not to notice how gorgeous he was, his dark hair and midnight eyes captivating. Her skin prickled with white-hot awareness.
“I don’t believe that. We need to get this guy off the street. You’re the first victim to see anything, the second to survive. The other guy’s not doing too well. He might not wake up from surgery.”
Tension snaked over her shoulders. She wished she could get involved, but she was already too deep into this mess, a mess not of her making. She’d done what she could for the man in the alley and now she had to go back to taking care of herself. If she didn’t, no one else would. “I can’t,” she whispered, her throat tight. His eyes pierced into her, and for a moment she thought he could see to her soul.
If he could, what would he see? A good person? A bad one? A spoiled brat who’d gotten what she’d deserved?
“If you’re worried about this guy coming after you, we can provide protection,” he said.
Carey wanted to scoff aloud at his naïveté. Maybe they could protect her from a serial killer who worked alone and in the dark of night. But police protection from Mark Sheffield, a man with nearly unlimited resources—nope, not possible. Mark probably had one or two officers in this district already in his pocket. “It’s not that.”
He inclined his head. “Tell me why. I can help you.”
Sadness weighed on her shoulders. Why did it bother her to know she was letting him down? Why did she care what he thought of her? She’d never see him again. “You can’t help me. No one can help me.”
His face filled with compassion, his eyes soft and inviting. Did they teach him that in detective school? How to milk the answer he wanted by using his handsome face and beautiful eyes?
“Maybe you don’t believe I can help you. But you know in your heart you can help the city. How many innocents are we going to let this guy hurt?”
Carey shifted in her chair, digging her toes into the floor and trying to add some distance between them. She hated how easily she reacted to him and how much she wanted to cooperate when she couldn’t. “I want to help you. I do.” Her conscience nipped at her heels.
“Then work with a sketch artist.”
Carey swallowed. Could she live with herself if she didn’t help and the Vagabond Killer struck again? No. She couldn’t. “And then I can go home?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’ll drive you.”
No! “No. I work with the sketch artist and then I leave here alone.”
Detective Truman stood upright and rubbed his jaw, considering her offer. “Fine. I’ll take what I can get. But my offer stands. If you change your mind, I can give you a ride and I can offer you protection.”
Reilly rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen his muscles that were tight and heavy with fatigue. After two hours, Carey Smith, not likely her real name, finished with the sketch artist. She still refused any assistance from him or anyone who had offered. The only thing she had accepted was a candy bar he’d snagged from the vending machine.
Who was she afraid of? An abusive boyfriend? Junkie parents waiting at her apartment? He didn’t get addict off her—her arms were clean of track marks, her teeth white and straight, and her skin healthy pink. If not drugs, then what?
She was a contradiction in terms. She claimed to work at Tidy Joe’s, where she likely earned less than minimum wage, yet she carried herself with an air of grace that came from careful breeding. Her clothes were cheap and ill-fitting, but she wore them with a flair of style. Her red hair was one of the worst dye jobs he’d seen, but her eyebrows indicated she was naturally blonde. She was beautiful and seemed to make every effort to downplay it.
If Reilly wasn’t careful, the next time he saw her, libido would override good sense and he’d reach for her again and wrap his arms around her. And this time, not for medical reasons and not to keep her from running away.
Every sign screamed “woman on the run.” Without her real name, he couldn’t search through their criminal or missing-persons database. He didn’t get any usable prints off the drinking glass or the foil of aspirin she’d taken. The pepper spray was at the lab for analysis. Maybe something would turn up there.
Reilly paced inside his lieutenant’s office. He was too tired to sit. If he did, he’d fall asleep and he still needed to escort Carey to her apartment. She could claim independence, she could demand to be left alone, but he wasn’t letting her get killed. If he had to, he’d follow at a distance and without her knowing. No one was going to hurt her on his watch.
“How soon do you want the sketch released?” Reilly asked the lieutenant.
The sketch artists were cleaning up the image in preparation for a media blitz. They planned to run the guy’s face in every newspaper, every online site and every news broadcast the moment the lieutenant approved it. Even if they couldn’t identify the Vagabond Killer from the sketch or from the tip line, the attention might put pressure on the killer and force him to make a mistake. Reilly was certain he wouldn’t stop killing until they caught him. And the frequency of his murders was increasing.
The lieutenant scrubbed a hand over his face. “The timing is terrible. Half the staff is taking leave for the holiday. Sending this picture to the media’s going to cause a freaking avalanche of insanity. We’re having enough trouble manning the tip lines without adding the crazies who think their reclusive neighbor looks somewhat like our guy.”
Reilly stopped pacing. “You can count on me to stick around. I’ll delay my leave until this guy is caught.” His family would understand, and with the new lead and a little luck, maybe they’d close the case by the New Year.
A tap on the door interrupted their discussion. Vanessa Blakely, Assistant D.A., strutted into the office. It was the only way to describe her walk—she strutted, and in heels that looked thin as nails. “I hear we got a witness. Normally, a 3:00 a.m. call puts me in a bad mood, but this I like.”
He lifted his eyes from her pointy shoes to her face. “She’s with victim assistance, getting some counseling.”
Vanessa’s eyes clouded with worry. “Is she a street rat?”
Reilly caught the tug of annoyance at her question before he snapped at her. He was tired and hungry and Carey was not a “street rat,” Vanessa’s term for the homeless at large. “She was walking home from work.” Emphasis on the word work. He liked Vanessa. She went to bat for victims and she worked hard, but she also had a snobbish streak.
Vanessa let out her breath. “Good, ’cause I can’t make a case and use her as a witness if she’s a
