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  “Assisting, not taking the lead. I just arrived—and I’ll be here for a while.”

  “I’ll be home within twenty minutes. Expect to hear from me in less than half an hour.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll poke around here, see if I can find anything that raises a red flag in connection with the other homicide. Do you know if the two victims were acquainted?”

  “Only through their interactions at the shop—and I doubt they met there more than twice.” Kristin exhaled. “I know the timing is odd, but I can’t imagine how the two deaths could be related.”

  “I can’t either—but I’ve seen stranger links in this job.” Cole shot him a can-we-get-on-with-this look, and Luke rejoined the man. “I’ll wait to hear from you about the receipt.” He slid the phone back on his belt.

  “Are you sure that was case related?” Cole’s razor-sharp gaze drilled into him.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “It seemed kind of . . . personal.”

  He’d better work on his poker face if his colleague was picking up on his interest in Kristin.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But that call may have some bearing on this case. You want to hear about it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cole listened in silence while Luke brought him up to speed on Kristin’s news.

  “She’s going to call me after she finds the receipt.” As he finished, the parallel creases denting the other man’s brow deepened.

  “While you wait to hear back from her, let’s nose around. Why don’t you take the upper level, and I’ll go through the first floor?”

  “You got it.”

  Luke ascended the stairs and began a methodical sweep of the three bedrooms in the spacious Cape Cod house.

  He found two things of interest in rapid succession.

  First, an open jewelry box in what appeared to be the master bedroom, the contents in disarray—as if someone had pawed through them and perhaps taken some items.

  A CSU tech had obviously noticed it too, since the box had been dusted for prints.

  The other item was a small brown shopping bag on the dresser, like the kind Starbucks used. He almost missed the significance as he gave it a passing glance on the way to the closet.

  But he jolted to a stop when the WorldCraft logo on the side angled away from him registered.

  He backed up and opened the bag wider with his latex-gloved fingers.

  Inside was a woven scarf and two small, tissue-swaddled packets.

  Luke pulled out the bundles and gently unwrapped them. A necklace and bracelet.

  He peered into the bag.

  Two cards featuring a photo of the candle-making monks from Syria and information about their ministry lay at the very bottom.

  Apparently, the items in the bag had been of no interest to the person who’d murdered Elaine Peterson. As Kristin had told him, nothing she sold at the shop was worth stealing—or killing for.

  So how could there be a connection between the two crimes?

  Yet the fact that this woman had been in the shop the day Susan was killed, then turned up dead herself less than seventy-two hours later, wasn’t sitting right.

  “You find anything?” Cole entered the room.

  “Yeah.” He motioned to the jewelry box on the dresser. “Someone’s gone through that. I expect there are items missing. And I found this.” He tapped the bag. “These are the items she bought at WorldCraft. You have anything?”

  “Her purse was in the kitchen. The wallet was on the counter, empty of cash and plastic.”

  “Sounds like robbery.”

  “Yeah—and the pieces fit. One of the neighbors knew she was meeting a friend for breakfast this morning and saw her leave about eight o’clock. But she came back a few minutes later. The neighbor speculates she must have forgotten something. It’s possible she walked in on the thief, and he panicked and killed her.”

  “How?” Luke should have asked that sooner.

  “Cut her throat. Carotid artery.”

  He stopped breathing.

  “What?” Cole homed in on his reaction.

  “That’s how Susan Collier died.”

  Cole’s mouth settled into a grim line. “Not the most common method of killing.”

  “No.” He’d seen plenty of stab wounds during his career, but only a handful of throat-cuttings.

  “Taylor—you up there?” Hank’s query echoed in the stairwell.

  “I thought he was gone.” Luke arched an eyebrow at his colleague.

  “No. He’s done in here, which is why we’re wandering freely. He went out to poke around on the patio.”

  “Hey! I hear you talking! You want an update or not?” Now Hank sounded annoyed.

  “Yes. On the way.” Cole headed toward the hall.

  Luke followed him down the stairs to find Hank waiting at the bottom.

  “You discover some helpful evidence?” Cole eased around the tech, who surrendered a mere inch or two.

  “Would I have called you if I didn’t?”

  Luke squeezed past the man as well.

  “You working this one too?” Hank folded his arms.

  “Assisting.”

  “Don’t let them dump a bunch of work on you because you’re new. I know how these boys operate.” He scowled at Cole.

  Cole scowled right back.

  When neither conceded the staring match, Luke stepped in. “So what do you have?”

  Giving the other detective one last stern appraisal, Hank turned to him. “Drops of blood.”

  “Drops of blood?” Cole looked at the man as if he’d lost his mind. “How is that helpful? There’s blood all over the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t find them in the kitchen. I found them on the patio. There’s a short trail.”

  Luke did the math at warp speed. “You think it’s the killer’s?”

  “Gold star to the new kid on the block.”

  “Hey . . . I thought the same thing,” Cole groused.

  “He said it first.” Hank smirked at the other detective. “My theory is that our killer was injured during the confrontation and left us a calling card.”

  “It’s not going to help unless his DNA is in the database,” Cole pointed out.

  “You might get lucky. Stay off the patio until I’m finished.”

  With that, Hank stalked toward the rear of the house.

  Cole watched him go, shaking his head. “How’d you manage to get in his good graces?”

  “No idea. He was all over me at the crime scene on Tuesday.” His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it out.

  Kristin.

  “Detective Carter?” She sounded winded.

  “Yes.” He held up a finger to Cole and angled away.

  “I’m home. I found the receipt.” She rattled off the items Elaine Peterson had bought.

  Everything matched—except for two candles from the monastery.

  “I found information cards about the monks in the bag, but no candles.” He focused on the wall in front of him, trying to make sense of that.

  “Elaine liked to buy them as gifts. She said it was two good deeds in one fell swoop—supporting the monks and shopping for birthday gifts at the same time. She might have given them away already.”

  “But the information cards were still in there. Two of them. One for each candle. Did she usually take those to include with her gifts?”

  “Yeah. She did.” Kristin sounded as puzzled as he felt. “Why would the killer steal the candles? They wouldn’t have any black-market value. Is anything else missing?”

  “Yes. Until you called, we’d been playing with robbery as a motive.”

  “That seems logical. Maybe she forgot to include the cards when she gave the candles away.”

  “Maybe.” Behind him, Cole cleared his throat. “I need to run. I’ll keep you apprised as developments occur. And listen . . . until we know what’s going on, use a little extra caution.”

  They said their goo
d-byes, and he swiveled back to find Cole watching him, his expression speculative.

  “What?”

  “That was friendly.”

  “Professional.”

  “And friendly. I’ve watched you work cases. You’re always cool, clinical, no-nonsense.”

  “That’s how I am on this case.”

  “Not even close.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How old is this woman who owns WorldCraft?”

  “What difference does that make?” Heat crept up his neck.

  “None to me—now. But I worked a crime once that involved a beautiful woman who knocked my socks off. I sounded like you did whenever I dealt with her.”

  “Is there a point to this story?”

  “Yep. I married her.” Cole grinned. “So a word to the wise. If you don’t intend to follow up, watch your tone of voice or you’ll send the lady the wrong signals.”

  He strolled toward the kitchen.

  Luke gave him a sixty-second head start. He needed a full minute to collect his wits—and come up with an action plan.

  His new colleagues might know he was a widower, thanks to the rampant grapevine at headquarters, but the last thing he needed was for them to think he was smitten with a woman who was involved in one of his cases.

  It was juvenile, unprofessional, and inappropriate.

  Not to mention disturbing.

  He wasn’t in the market for a relationship.

  Yet if he was honest . . . if he evaluated Cole’s comment objectively . . . his colleague was correct. The tone he’d used with Kristin was a dozen—or two—degrees warmer than the one he used for anyone else he’d ever dealt with during a case. And his cautionary warning at the end hadn’t been SOP either.

  Lesson learned.

  Going forward, he’d quash any impulse to treat her differently. He would be polite and cordial—but all business. Nothing more. He could . . . and would . . . control his behavior on the job.

  Even if he couldn’t control the starring role she’d begun to play in his dreams.

  6

  Yusef Bishara set the brake on his car, surveyed the municipal park, and kneaded the knot in his stomach.

  He couldn’t keep doing this. The stress was killing him.

  But what choice did he have? He was in too deep now . . . and if he balked, he had no doubt Amir would carry out his threat.

  His own life he would sacrifice in a heartbeat to rid himself of this terrible burden. But not the life of . . .

  Yusef tensed as a man sauntered into his field of vision, supersized disposable cup in hand, newspaper tucked under his arm. The twentysomething guy turned toward him. Facing the windshield, he lit a cigarette, blew a puff of smoke, then strolled down the jogging path that wound through the park.

  His contact was here.

  Yusef took a steadying breath. He wasn’t cut out for subterfuge—especially since he was certain it aided and abetted those who were committing atrocities.

  But he had no other option.

  He waited for five minutes in his car, as instructed. Then, dodging the runners, bicyclists, and walkers who already populated the park at this early hour on Saturday, he walked toward the third bench along the path, where the man was now sitting.

  He shoved his trembling fingers into the pockets of his jeans. In his casual attire, he could be one of the lucky people who were here for a relaxing morning of recreation.

  If only.

  As he approached the bench, the dark-haired man adjusted his sunglasses and laid the folded newspaper beside him. He pulled out his cell, put it to his ear, and walked a few feet away, leaving the coffee cup behind.

  Yusef sat on the other side of the bench.

  The man continued to talk on the phone, gradually increasing the distance between them, keeping an eye on the activity in the park.

  He looked back once, when he was halfway to the parking lot and there was a momentary lull in activity near the bench.

  Yusef’s cue.

  He reached for the newspaper and moved the cup beside him.

  The man pivoted away, cell to ear, and continued toward the asphalt lot.

  After the path turned, Yusef lost sight of him.

  Ten minutes later, per his instructions, Yusef tucked the bulky newspaper under his arm and picked up the heavy cup that contained cargo much more precious than soda or coffee.

  He walked back to his car, put the newspaper on the seat beside him, and gently settled the cup into the holder.

  The courier was nowhere to be seen.

  As usual.

  These rendezvous were always the same. A parade of different faces, hidden behind dark glasses. A busy park. No conversation.

  And what came next would be the same too. After two years, he was clear on his role.

  Only the seller’s name and PO box number changed.

  He started the engine and pulled out of the park.

  Officially, he might be off work today.

  But what he did on weekdays was a piece of cake compared to the task on his plate for this weekend.

  The bell over the shop door jingled, and Kristin glanced up from the display she was arranging.

  “Can I tempt you with some coffee?” Ryan stuck his head in the door and hefted a cup from Kaldi’s.

  “Sure. That’s a step up from my house brew—and a little more caffeine can’t hurt.” She smiled and crossed the store to join him.

  “Any customers yet?” He entered and handed her the cup.

  “No. The first hour on Saturday is always quiet. Too quiet, today. I’m glad you stopped by.” She took a sip of the coffee. He’d added some sugar, as usual, but the touch of sweetness couldn’t mask the bitter flavor that lingered on her tongue from Monday’s tragedy.

  “I’m glad the place is back to normal.” He gave it a quick skim. “And I like where you put the display case and cash register.”

  “I couldn’t leave them where they were. I spend too much time behind that counter.”

  “Understandable. Speaking of that . . . any updates from the police?”

  “No. I haven’t talked to the case detective for two days—and I initiated the call on Thursday.”

  His eyebrows rose. “How come?”

  “I saw on the news that one of my customers was killed that morning—and she was in the shop on Monday.”

  His forehead puckered. “You think the killings are related?”

  “I don’t know what to think. All I know is two people who had a connection with my shop were murdered within seventy-two hours of each other. I’m more than a little spooked by the whole thing.”

  “Did the customer live around here?”

  “Not far. Sunset Hills.”

  “Maybe it’s coincidence.”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t . . .”

  The bell over the door jangled again, and two women entered.

  “I’ll get out of your hair and let you attend to your customers.” Ryan touched her arm. “If you need anything, don’t be shy about asking.”

  “I won’t. Thank you for being such a considerate neighbor.”

  She took another sip of her coffee as he circled the women and left the shop, then set the cup on the counter and summoned up a smile.

  Today was going to be hard—but she’d get through it. And every day to come would be a little easier.

  Still . . . until the police figured out the who and why behind the two tragic deaths, it was going to be difficult to shake the feeling that some sinister plot was in the works—and that she was somehow smack in the middle of it.

  Especially after Luke Carter’s warning to be careful.

  “It’s about time you showed your face around here.”

  Before Luke could respond to his sister’s wry greeting, the twins barreled through the front door and launched themselves at his legs with squeals of delight.

  Chuckling, he bent down and hoisted the three-year-olds, one under each arm. “Where
are Mike and Mark? I was hoping to see my nephews on this visit.” He strolled into the foyer, maintaining an innocent expression as he inspected the living room to the right.

  Giggles erupted.

  “We’re here, Unc Luke.” Mike began to squirm.

  “I think I hear someone.” Luke pretended to listen.

  “Look under your arm.” Mark giggled again.

  Luke dipped his chin and faked surprise. “What in the world? Did you put them there while I wasn’t paying attention, Sis?”

  “I’m not lifting anything these days.” Becca patted her growing girth.

  “Well, I can’t imagine how these two motion machines got under there.” Luke set them on their feet.

  “You picked us up.” Mark grinned at him.

  “I did?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And here I thought it was magic.” He tousled the youngster’s hair and winked.

  “Wanna play?” Mike gave a hopeful tug on his other hand.

  “Later. I’m going to feed your uncle a decent breakfast.” Becca stepped forward.

  “I already . . .”

  She held up a hand. “You can eat junk all week, but if you come to visit here on Saturday morning, you get a real breakfast. End of discussion. Boys, go watch cartoons while your uncle eats. You can wrestle with him after breakfast.”

  “Okay.” Mark commandeered Mike’s arm and pulled him toward the family room.

  “Well-behaved little guys.” Luke followed his sister to the kitchen.

  “Ha. Try living with them 24/7 and you’ll sing a different tune.”

  “Where’s Neal?” He slid onto a stool at the kitchen island.

  “He had a release this weekend. And during our dating days, he claimed IT was a nine-to-five job.” She snorted.

  “Most career jobs these days aren’t for clock-punchers.” He helped himself to some grapes from a bowl of fruit.

  “Neal doesn’t keep your hours, though. Pancakes and bacon sound good?”

  “You don’t have to feed me, Becca.”

  “I like to cook.” She pulled a bowl from the fridge. “And the batter’s already made. I was hoping you’d show.”

  “I said I’d be here.”

  “Yeah . . . but you bailed on our last two get-togethers.”

  “Case related. How’s the little princess doing?” He gestured toward her tummy.