Deadly Obsession

A killer is loose who has a taste for human blood. Cole presses harder into the investigation, but the body count climbs. He has personal reasons for detesting the press, so sparks fly when Laurie hounds him for a story. Fate forces them to join forces, neither one anticipating the attraction that ensues. But just as Cole thinks he is close to finding all the answers, both personal and professional, Laurie disappears.

Awards: The Road to Romance Reviewer's Choice Award, 2000 EPPIE Finalist, 1999 Romance Communications Reviewers Choice Awards Nominee

Blood. The hands, face, and shirt are soaked with it. The heart pumps the hot liquid through arteries and veins; the tortured soul stops it. God creates life and Satan destroys it.

“Dear God,” the anguished soul cries to the blackened heavens, offering tainted hands, falling to its knees. The heels of the palms shield the torment in its dark eyes; the stench of life's vital fluids permeates the air. A muffled query is heard. “Why have you forsaken me?”

But the soul knows it will strike again. The hunger for spilled blood is too intense.

Another life will be taken. And they will be too ignorant to stop it.

Rising on shaken limbs, the virulent figure flees from the shadows and into the darkened night.

Cole Kincaid sat up abruptly. His breath came in short, shallow pants, his heart hammered in his chest. The air hung heavy with humidity, but that was not what dotted his brow with sweat or caused his skin to cling to the sheets of his bed. His conscience granted him no respite, terrorizing him in the form of a reoccurring nightmare.

“Damn,” he cursed aloud, though no one was there to hear. Aloneness had become his companion as of late.

He ran rough hands down his unshaven face, wiping away the perspiration. He exhaled through pursed lips, willing away the all too vivid images that remained from the dream. The phone jangled and Cole jumped, his heart lurching in his chest. He glared at the ebony phone sitting on the bedside table as though his mere wish could stop it from ringing again. Another shrill sound split the dead calm; he glanced at the alarm clock glowing green in the darkness. Two o'clock in the morning.

Cole snatched up the receiver and growled into it, “This better be good.”

“Sorry, Cole, Jack Douglas here...seems a body has been discovered in Bain Park near Coe Ditch. White female, possible murder.” Silence followed as Cole digested the information. This was Fairview Park, for crissake. These things simply did not happen here—ever. He had done his homework well; Fairview Park had only two murders in the last thirty-five years. Three years prior, Cole packed all his belongings and left Cleveland far behind him to avoid just such occurrences. “Two units have been dispatched to the scene.”

“Who?” Cole asked, clenching his jaw. The ache traveled to his temples, ending with a ring in his ears.

“O'Riley and Cooper.”

“O'Riley? Shit!” Cole jumped to the floor in search of his jeans, haphazardly discarded the night before. “Radio Cooper, tell him to secure the area and put O'Riley in charge of crowd control before he walks all over my evidence. Call the chief and apprise him of the situation.”

“Right away, Cole.”

If Jack Douglas had any more to say, Cole didn't hear it as he slammed the receiver onto the base and went in search of a T-shirt—preferably a clean one.

A red haze from the aftereffects of the nightmare seemed to distort his view of the night as he pulled a shirt over his head. Cole mentally shrugged off the remaining images of the dream, going off to find the keys to his Ford Ranger. Now was not a time to dwell on his awry misconceptions of life.

By the sofa in the living room, he stepped over a pair of discarded jeans, a ripped T-shirt, a woman's skirt, and silk blouse. More clothes trailed to the apartment's second bedroom where a male's muffled voice and a woman's soft moan filtered into the living room. Cole chuckled. His roommate, Damien, had to be the luckiest son of a gun alive. Cole was definitely in the wrong line of business. Groupies flocked to rock singers like flies to fly paper.

Cole spotted his keys on the breakfast bar, separating the kitchen from the living room. Shoving his bare feet into a pair of worn Nikes, he stuffed the keys into his pocket, and grabbed his Cleveland Indians ball cap, placing it on his head backwards. Not exactly appropriate attire, but at this time of night, who the hell would care?

Moments later, his black Ranger was traveling northeast on Lorain Road heading for the station. Guns n' Roses, “Welcome to the Jungle,” filled the airwaves. How appropriate, Cole scoffed, thinking of the irony.

He would have to stock his car with the necessary evidence collection kits before heading to the scene. The detectives' cars didn't remain stocked at all times, simply because things like this just did not happen here.

The night was quiet as usual with very few cars on the road. Cole noted each passerby as though already searching for his perpetrator. Hell, he had not even been to the crime scene and he was already trying to get into the mind of the assailant. Christ, would he never quit?

He pulled into the parking lot, jumped from the cab of his truck, and jogged up to the door leading into the back of the station. Jack Douglas was waiting. He shoved a piece of paper with the specifics of the location into Cole's hands and followed Cole to the locker room.

Cole threw open his locker; the metal door clanged loudly against the neighboring one. He took his Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter from where he had stuffed it in the top of his jeans, snapped in a magazine, tucked his pancake holster into his Levi's, then sheathed his gun.

“What time did the call come in?”

“One forty-five.”

Cole looked at his watch. “Damn,” he cursed. Forty-five minutes had already passed.

“I've stocked your car,” Douglas said as though he had read Cole's mind and handed him a thirty-five millimeter camera. “You're ready to go.”

Cole took his hat from his head and hung it in his locker, raking his fingers through his disheveled hair. Then he withdrew a worn blue blazer from the locker and hastily shoved his arms into the sleeves as he returned to the back of the station.

“I'll call in with any findings,” he said over his shoulder. He took a set of keys from the hooks by the back door and left.

Cole opened the trunk to check for the kits. Satisfied, he slammed down the lid, then climbed into his car, not wanting to waste another moment.

He drove around a slight bend in South Park Road minutes later when he spotted the flashers of the white cruisers about four hundred feet away. As he pulled up behind the last car, he noted curious neighbors and media mongrels had already gathered.

“O'Riley,” Cole called out, spotting one of the uniforms. “Control this situation and get these people the hell out of here. This isn't a media circus. Where the hell is Cooper?”

O'Riley pointed between two of the three houses on the north side of the road, then placed his hands in front of him as though he meant to bodily remove each and every person from the crowd. By the size of him, the idea was not preposterous or improbable.

Cole walked between the houses to a section shrouded by trees. Stepping into the dense covering, he spotted one of the station's evidence technicians, Frank Cooper, standing several feet away from the covered victim, lying on the south side of the ditch.

Too-raw flesh, feces, urine, and blood permeated the air. The smell alone would have attracted attention. A slight sheen covered Cooper's upper lip. Cole recognized the use of Vicks VapoRub ointment; the camphor and menthol ingredients overpowered the smell of the decomposing body. He had witnessed one too many such situations and knew that within three minutes the olfactory nerves in his nose would go numb, no longer able to detect the vile odors.

Cole withdrew his notebook from the pocket of his blazer. “Who phoned this in?”

“Sarah Jones. We've placed her in a cruiser. She's agreed to go down to the station,” Cooper replied as he stood with his hands behind his back, careful not to move.

“Who's been in this area?”

“Just Miss Jones, O'Riley, and me.”

“How did she find the body?” Cole asked.

“Said she couldn't sleep, went for a walk. The smell caught her attention—she vomited by the ditch.” He pointed to a spot slightly northeast of where they were standing.

“Did anyone touch the body?” Cole stopped writing and looked up. He watched Cooper shuffle from one foot to the other, peering at a spot over Cole's shoulder. He clenched his jaw, fearing his teeth might just crack under the pressure. “O'Riley?”

Cooper's gaze snapped back to Cole's. “He lifted the head, sir. Her throat was slit-damn near from ear to ear.”

“Didn't he learn anything at the academy?” Cole shook his head in disgust. He slipped the strap of a thirty-five millimeter camera from his shoulder and snapped pictures of the victim and the surrounding area. He took a pair of rubber gloves from the inside breast pocket of his blazer, slipped them on, then knelt beside the body and lifted the corner of the blanket.

“Who covered the victim?” Cole asked.

“That's the way we found it.”

“Go tell O'Riley to note the license plates in the vicinity, though I doubt it will do much good. By the looks of things, this one's been dead a couple of days.”

Maggots crawled in and around the ears and over the body as beetles feasted on the skin. Cole replaced the blanket, again covering the victim's head. “Call the coroner's office, have them send someone to pick up the body. We need to establish a time of death. Be careful where you step, Cooper. I don't want you messing up my crime scene. Get the kits from my car.” He tossed the keys at the officer. “Seal off the area. The son of a bitch had to leave footprints somewhere out here. We'll take some soil samples from around the body, secure the hands for traces of the perp’s skin and blood, and protect the neck wound. I don't want anything left undone.” He paused, looking at the unmoving officer. “What the hell are you waiting for, Christmas?”

Cooper turned and carefully stepped his way toward the houses. Even if they took every precaution in gathering evidence, Cole knew he would find nothing of importance. This body had been dumped here. They’d find no signs of struggle, no blood, nothing.

“Damn.” Cole’s curse was the only sound amidst the distant murmurs of the crowd of neighbors and media. Even the animals seemed to have gone silent over the evil that had been played out.

Cole knelt beside the body again and lifted the corner of the blanket. The victim was a white female, seeming to be in her late teens to early twenties. According to her state of dress, she appeared to have been a prostitute. From his years on the force, he could easily spot a hooker with their thigh high boots, too short skirts and a top that barely covered their cleavage. She lay face down in the dirt, arms out to the side, legs askew. Not the way she died, Cole thought. Postmortem lividity clearly showed she lain on her back for several hours after her death. Rigor mortis had already left her body. But because of the elevated temperature of the last couple of days and her slight build, rigor probably lasted no more than twenty-four hours.

After disposing the body, the perp used a blanket to cover the victim. Hiding her from view? More likely, he was ashamed of what he did. While working as a detective in Cleveland, Cole learned about profiling criminals from FBI agents called in from time to time to help solve impossible cases. He was sure they were looking for a white male. This kind of murder rarely crossed racial lines.

A chill ran down Cole's spine. Intuition told him the murderer would strike again. Though the assailant was ashamed of his deeds, the bite marks on the side of the neck and around the wound showed that he acted out of a passion for blood. The lab would check to see if the victim had been raped, but Cole would lay odds she hadn’t been. The sexual draw was related to taking blood from the victim. The nature of biting, of taking blood from a human, was an intimate act. Sexual almost. Any sexual angle would be related to the bloodletting not to physical intercourse.

If anything, he would masturbate following the crime. They were dealing with one sick son of a bitch. But then again, weren't all murderers?

Find the unknown subject and match his teeth marks to the wounds surrounding the neck. Cole exhaled the breath he held, let the blanket fall into place, and stood. He took off his gloves and picked up his notebook and pencil and began a sketching the area. Cooper returned and cordoned off the scene, then both Cole and Cooper measured and triangulated the body. The head lay four feet from the ditch, the feet, nine and a half.

The victim's hands were sealed in paper bags as were several dirt samples, each one marked with evidence tags. The area was searched; no weapon was found, no usable shoe prints. All in all, they had very little to go on. They had a body and they had Sarah Jones, whom a uniform had taken to the station.

The coroner's assistant arrived and supervised the body’s removal. Sealed in a black body bag, it was taken away on a stretcher. Another statistic.

Five hours later, tired and frustrated from searching for more clues and countess interviews from neighbors, Cole walked toward his vehicle. “O'Riley,” he called to the uniform still guarding the area like a sheepdog tending his herd, “when relief arrives, tell them to make sure the scene stays secured. I want to come back later to make sure I didn't miss anything.”

“No problem, Lieutenant.”

Hell, by the looks of O'Riley, one would never know he just spent the last five hours standing in one spot. Cole would have chuckled had he not felt so damn distraught. As he reached his car, Cole leaned against it, his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and his gaze trained on nothing in particular. Chances were, their unknown subject was hundreds of miles away. He’d check with law enforcement in the surrounding areas to see if any crimes matched the modus operandi or signature of his case. The MO might change, but the perp's signature, his taste for blood, would remain a constant.

Rubbing a palm over his whiskered jaw, Cole debated about going home. What he needed most now was sleep, though he'd likely not get rest anytime soon. He pulled off his blue blazer and tossed it into the passenger seat through the open window of his car. He grabbed the handle to the door.

“Excuse me, Detective Kincaid?”

Cole startled, unaware anyone had approached. He spun around. A woman of slight build and height stood near. She wore her deep auburn hair in a severe knot at the base of her neck and stared at him unblinking through large doe eyes.

“Detective? Any word for the press?”

“I have no comment at this time.” He dismissed her, opening the door to his car. But before he entered, she placed a well-manicured hand on the frame, drawing his attention and noting the absence of a wedding ring. She was pretty—he would give her that much. “Look, Miss—”

“Michaels,” she said, holding out her hand. “Laurie Michaels. I'm with the newspaper, Westlife. What’s your assessment of the situation?”

“Talk to Officer O'Riley.” Ignoring her hand, his gaze traveled to the large man standing on the freshly cut lawn, arms crossed over his chest, his expression bored.

“I already did, Detective. I want to talk to you.”

Her lower cinnamon-painted lip protruded slightly farther than the upper. Cole thought she had a sexy pout, and only imagined how sweet it would taste had he the notion to draw it between his own lips. His gaze traveled back to hers and by the flush of her cheeks, he could tell she knew exactly the type of thoughts he entertained.

He looked at the notebook and pen she clutched in her free hand. Cole frowned. “You made an unwise choice, Miss Michaels. I don’t talk to journalists.”

Undaunted, she stiffened her stance and held her ground. “The public has a right to know what happened here.”

“And it's your duty to inform them.”

“I believe we understand one another.” Laurie punctuated her statement with a lift of her pouty lips; his gaze was once more drawn to her mouth.

Hell, he was a man after all.

Disgusted for even noticing how desirable she was, he grumbled a “No comment,” again as he attempted to enter his car.

Her small hand landed on his shoulder. Heat traveled the length of his spine, ending with a dull ache in his groin. His gaze snapped to hers; she withdrew her hand, obviously aware of her mistake.

She raised one finely arched brow. “Detective, I’m just doing my job. Who is the victim? What was the cause of death?”

“Miss Michaels, I’m just doing my job and if you continue harassing me, I'll have that nice officer over there arrest you.”

Her eyes rounded, anger sparking in their depths. “For what?”

“Interfering with police business.” Cole glared at her, hoping she would take the hint and leave him the hell alone. The last thing he wanted right now was to be held up by an overzealous reporter, let alone a woman, and a pretty one at that. This wasn’t the time to be thinking about his sex life or his lack of one.

Her shoulders squared. “Detective Kincaid, I'm not interfering in your investigation. Had I approached you in those trees beyond the house—”

“You would have been arrested on the spot,” he grumbled. Exhaustion poured through him. To hell with it. “What's it going to take to get rid of you?” He knew she had won the first battle as a smugness settled into her warm brown eyes. For God's sake, what was she wasting her time as a reporter for? She could have made a mint as a model.

“Was the woman found in the woods murdered, and, if so, do you have any suspects?”

“We have a white female, a possible murder. She was found in Bain Park on South Park Drive, about four hundred feet off Eaton Road, by Coe Ditch. No details of the death are available; there’s no I.D. of the victim.” Cole ended the interview with a curt smile, then climbed inside of the car, shut the door, and started the engine.

Miss Michaels gaped at him in astonishment. “That's it?”

Cole's smile returned. He threw his car into drive as his foot rested on the brake. “That's it. We'll issue an official statement to the press at a later time.” He pulled away from the curb, watching Miss Michaels in the rear view mirror, fists on hips, her note pad extending like an appendage to one hip, glaring at him.

He chuckled. She had spunk. But he still hated journalists. And she would be no exception.