LITMIR.BIZ

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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 loon.”

      Her comment lit a faint hint of aggravation in him. “Van, take it down a notch. She interrupted a stabbing in progress, trying to save a stranger and got herself hurt in the process. She could have kept walking. She did a great job with the sketch artist even though she’s terrified.”

      Vanessa set her hand on her hip. “She’s a regular superhero. Good to know. Juries love an everyday hero coming to the aid of a victim. Good Samaritan angle.”

      Vanessa was direct and single-minded about her cases, but she was right about Carey. With the right clothes and a little polishing, Carey would make a witness any jury would adore. If he were on that jury, he’d take one look at her expressive blue eyes, her lush mouth, and with her strength and moxie underscoring her words, he’d swallow the story, hook, line and sinker.

      “What’s the plan to release the sketch?” Vanessa asked.

      The lieutenant set his hands on top of his desk and pushed himself to his feet. He adjusted his belt around his waist. “We were just talking about that. I’m suspending leave for every cop in the city and we’ll release the sketch as soon as they have it ready. We’ll see if we can pull some volunteers to answer the tip line. The faster it gets out there, the faster we catch this guy.”

      Reilly snuffed out the last thoughts of taking a six-hour snooze in his bed. It looked like he’d have to settle for a few hours in the bunkhouse and charge up on coffee.

      “You gonna tell them or should I?” Reilly asked, glancing out into the squad room, the gold garland and red stockings they’d tossed up making a mockery of the holiday they weren’t going to have until the city was safe.

      “I’ll do my own dirty work,” the lieutenant said. He wiped his brow with his hand, taking the steps into the squad room with more weight than usual. Though the team would grumble about the extra hours, they were dedicated and would do what they were asked to do, holiday or no holiday.

      “It’s going to be a happy Christmas, huh?” Vanessa asked.

      An image of Carey wearing a sexy Santa suit with high black boots, a short skirt and low-cut top flashed into Reilly’s mind. He could see her standing beneath twinkling Christmas lights, red and white and hot. He stamped that image out with all his might. He needed to get some rest soon. He couldn’t think of victims and witnesses as anything except people involved in his case, which made personal relationships with them off limits. His inconvenient attraction to her would disappear as soon as he’d gotten some sleep.

      Ten years ago, his former partner Lucas had made the mistake of becoming emotionally involved with a victim in a case they’d been investigating. When the defense council learned of the relationship, they had twisted it in the eyes of the jury, implying Lucas had coached the victim into giving false testimony. Though Reilly didn’t believe the accusation, Lucas had been forced to leave the department, his career in ruins, and a killer had walked free. It had been a brutal lesson for every detective on the squad, one Reilly wouldn’t repeat.

      Before he could reply to Vanessa, Carey appeared in the squad room, escorted by Officer Dillinger. Strong, yet fragile Carey. She’d relented and worked with the sketch artist, though she’d been under no obligation. She’d been frightened and managed to see the greater good in helping them catch a killer. He respected her a great deal for acting despite her fear.

      The air in the room shifted and tensed. Was the unit catching wind their holiday plans were on hold? Or was Carey sending a vibe straight into his gut—a vibe that said protect me, help me, hold me?

      Ah,

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